


Sleight of Hand

by AnnaSneezy



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Asperger Syndrome, Autistic Spencer Reid, Awkward Conversations, Echolalia, Everyone Loves Reid, Fluff, Food Issues, Hotch is actually a dad, More tags later ig, Overstimulation, Sassy Spencer Reid, Science Magic, Sensory Overload, Snippets, Spencer should actually be pre- diabetic, Stimming, Tags Are Hard, Team Feels, The Author Regrets Nothing, The BAU jet, Timelines are hard, Work In Progress, and so is Rossi, he's a big boy that can handle himself, or his drug addiction, seriously why doesn't the show address this better, the entire BAU is just a bunch of children addicted to caffeine, way too much coffee, yeah lets not address Reid's asperger's
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:42:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 41,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26328850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaSneezy/pseuds/AnnaSneezy
Summary: Reid stared at Morgan, his face curling up in a characteristic smirk. "Fuck Freud. Jung holds more credibility anyways. I have Asperger's, not mommy issues."Snippets in which the team gets glimpses of Reid's Asperger's, and react in the way you'd expect--like the nosy yet supportive family they are. In-progress.
Comments: 209
Kudos: 661





	1. Rambling

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo essentially my brother and uncle are on the spectrum, as well as one of my best friends. It by no means makes me an expert on ASDs, but did make me upset when Blake suggests Reid may have Asperger's and then NOTHING HAPPENS. If you disagree, no worries! Just my interpretation. So here's my take on the team slowly picking up on it and helping (got the idea when I noticed how many times Hotch gently silences Reid). 
> 
> Warnings--none really, this first chapter is a little physically gory, but like?? you're already in this fandom so I don't think anyone will have any issues. Also please excuse my timelines--because these are all mini-oneshots as chapters, timelines are sure to be screwy.

The case was horrific. 

There was never a relaxed case; there was never a case that didn’t come home with each of the members at night, haunting their dreams, faces flashing behind their eyelids before they fell asleep. Each case brought its own exhaustion and doubt, making them wonder if, in the end, they were really changing anything. 

This case brought gore—a lot of gore. 

The third crime scene was horrific. When they stepped into the house, the tangy smell of copper and the wretched scent of death immediately filled their nostrils. Blood was splattered everywhere, and limbs swung from an elaborate bar system spinning slowly from the ceiling, all connected by twine. 

“It’s a mobile,” JJ whispered, her face pale. The team tried to ignore as she swallowed back a gag, but they all seemed to share the same sentiment. “I…I have one hanging above Henry’s crib.” 

“A what?” Gideon asked, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t look disgusted, simply intrigued. 

“Mobiles are the common term for ‘kinetic art.’ We don’t actually know when they first created, but the term wasn’t normalized until 1931 by Marcel Duchamp,” Reid supplied quickly, but he wasn’t finished. So many facts, so little time. “Mobiles are defined by the kinetic properties of motion, but especially when they are free-moving. It’s all about balance. Calder was the largest proprietor of mobiles and made them popular in baby nurseries, citing cognitive development. But that doesn’t make sense—something with the intent of stimulating a young mind should involve noise, light, color, and objects that challenge depth perception. Mobiles hardly fit the bill, because they are just motion. It doesn’t even challenge a baby because they’re already accustomed to motion; it serves as little more than a pretty distraction.” 

Morgan was about to chime in, but Reid left little room to interrupt. His fingers were twitching slightly as he explained, and his face was lit up with a sort of misplaced excitement. 

“Reid,” Hotch pressed slightly. The topic was beginning to stray, and there wasn’t much time for distraction. 

“The real question is why make a mobile out of extremities?” Reid continued. “That takes an extreme amount of skill. The UNSUB might be more sophisticated than we’re giving him credit for. It would be nearly impossible for the weights of the limbs to balance out, let alone maintain one with perpetual motion. Blood has to be the key. Some of the limbs were probably drained slightly, just a few ounces of blood, to keep it even. The cutting on the limbs is rough though, so we’re probably looking at someone with a physics or math background, not medical. The only art using blood is attributed to a few rare artists, most by Herman Mitsch. In fact, Marc Quinn had been recorded for using his own blood for frozen sculpture by—”

“Reid, that’s enough,” Hotch said briskly, effectively cutting Reid off. The younger man gave a minuscule nod, focusing back to the crime scene, biting back words that were threatening to spill forth. 

“Wait, are you saying this display was made for a child?” Morgan asked, filling the silence. 

Reid looked up as if taken off guard. His mouth opened, but closed it rapidly, as if he couldn’t remember where he had left off, or if he even had permission to talk again.

“I think it’s worth checking,” Hotch supplied. His tone had slipped into delegation mode. “Greenaway, have forensics search for prints on the…art. I doubt we’ll find any, but maybe the UNSUB slipped up with the assembly. Morgan, search the house for any sign of a baby—materials, photos, anything. J.J., start handling the press. I don’t know how they got here so fast, but this is not a scene I want them to see. 

“Reid, come with me,” he continued. “We’ll call Garcia and have her run some background the property and limbs. Outside though, the house has poor service.” 

Gideon watched the two men walk out. The house didn’t have poor service; he already knew that Hotch would reprimand Reid for his outburst. Personally, he had never had an issue with Reid’s frenzied tangents. But it seemed to bother the rest of the team. He shrugged, turning back to the crime scene. Hotch would handle it. 

Reid was walking outside, pulling out his neglected phone from his pocket before he noticed Hotch close behind. 

“Reid, hold on a minute.” 

Reid turned around, cringing in preparation for his boss to explain that his topic of conversation had been misguided and inappropriate. He had been waiting for that moment all year. He always noticed Hotch’s face when he went on a tangent—slightly angry, or perhaps disappointed. Disgusted. Or maybe embarrassed. He knew his days on the team were numbered. He had been brought on by Gideon, but he knew he needed to impress Hotch equally. 

“Sir, I’m sorry, I—”

“Reid, listen a moment,” Hotch said, interrupting. “I didn’t mean to cut you off so harshly. It was rude and dismissive.”

Reid gaped. Definitely not what he was expecting. 

“Sometimes, it’s hard for us to discern what is useful context that is pertinent to a case, and what isn’t,” Hotch continued. “And if I’m not mistaken, sometimes it’s difficult for you as well. All that information up there, it doesn’t surprise me that you think everything is connected. Am I correct?”

Reid remained quiet for a moment. He was picking at one of his fingers. “Do you remember the Davenport case?”

Hotch nodded sharply, not sure if this was the conversation he was ready (or even remotely equipped) to have. The Davenport case had been an early on; Reid had proven himself to the team, as per usual. But the defining moment was when the UNSUB hinted that Reid may have autism, and Gideon’s purposeful overlooking of the moment. He had expected a reaction from Reid or an explanation from Gideon. Neither came. 

“Spencer, you don’t need to…” Hotch began, his voice briefly stepping out its professional tone. 

“It’s true.” 

Hotch looked up, but the other agent’s eyes were pointed at the ground. He wanted to respond but could tell that Reid wasn’t finished. He was chewing on the side of his mouth, choosing his next words carefully. 

“I should have been diagnosed much sooner. But my mom was afraid of doctors—they were all just government agents in disguise to her. She didn't want them peering into my head; she was paranoid 'They' would take me away. It wasn’t until college that a counselor…well, I was still young, but my mom couldn’t be on campus with me all the time to protect me from doctors. I was going to find out sooner or later. My mom still doesn't even know. She thinks I'm just gifted. I didn’t need accommodations, so it didn’t change anything. It never mattered until I had to work on a team. I don’t ramble to show that I’m the smartest in the room. I don’t realize I’m doing it. It’s like trying to switch trains when no one announced a change but now it’s too late to jump off and it’s infuriating and I—”

“Spencer, it’s alright. You don’t owe me an explanation,” Hotch said, his voice taking on a surprisingly soft tone, praying the man would take a break from his speech to simply breathe. “I don’t want you to think that your knowledge is a burden to this team. It’s incredibly valued; it’s just hard for us to keep up. I don’t want you to hold back when something might be useful. But I need to know how to help.” 

“Cut me off,” Reid said, his voice certain. “What you did back there was…good. It wasn’t rude. It’s a good way of grounding.”

“Are you sure?” Hotch asked. “I want you to be comfortable so that you can perform your best work. I need to know that you won’t take it as a reprimand or disinterest.”

“No. I would sincerely appreciate it.”

“Okay,” Hotch conceded. “You can change your mind at any time. And if you want to finish your thought after a case, I'll listen. I know cutting you off doesn't make the thought go away; it just represses it. But I would be happy to listen to your background knowledge when we aren't on a strict timeline." 

“Thank you,” Reid said, a smile gracing his features. “I really appreciate it.”

“Of course,” Hotch said, barely hesitating before grasping Reid’s shoulder as the corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Now call Garcia. I don’t want to be the one telling her we have a baby mobile made of body parts.”

Aaron began walking away before he heard Reid’s petulant cry. 

“Wait, I don’t want to do that either!”


	2. Overstimulated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow that response was a lot larger than I had anticipated, thanks so much you all! So unable to stop myself, here's the next chapter!

It was too much. 

The day started off…not well. 

Reid had missed his subway to work and had to catch the one that left 17 minutes later. Grabbing a slightly earlier train held two benefits—firstly, it gave Reid extra time to set up at the BAU and make his coffee in peace; secondly, it was much less crowded than the later one. 

The second train was one Reid avoided at all costs and it was nearly deadly today. Being late and messing up his set schedule had already set Reid on edge, but being crammed in a metal tube like sardines was unbearable. He was suddenly aware of everything happening around him—the strong smells of people eating their to-go breakfasts, children crying, the constant typing on phones, businessmen talking about how _if we don’t get the reports in by lunch the firm will lose the clients_ and oh my god the man next to him who smelled more like rubbing alcohol than cologne was brushing up against his shoulder he had to get out out _out._

When the train reached his stop, Reid all but leaped from his seat to exit the train before getting through the doors became a battle. The last thing he could stand was more physical contact. 

Reid walked as fast as he could to the BAU building, mindlessly going through the initial routine—checking in, going through the scanner, and making his way to the elevator. Finally, a semblance of his routine was beginning to re-establish itself. He stepped into the elevator, taking a deep breath as the elevator doors shut. The enveloping silence on all four sides was relaxing, the hum of the elevator slightly vibrating underneath his feet, with soft dings at each floor. He wished it would last longer. 

Alas, the elevator pinged as the doors opened, and Reid was thrown back into the chaos of the real world. Phones were ringing, people were scrambling about, printers and fax machines beeping, and each new sound felt like a personal assault. 

Reid bit back an uncharacteristic snarl, ducking his head as he evaded other agents in the crowded office. He dropped his bag off at his desk before beelining towards the coffee machine. 

“Hey man, Hotch pushed back the briefing another 20 minutes until you got here. What gives? You’re never late,” Morgan greeted, walking up behind him. Reid pretended not to be startled. “Wait, lemme guess. An interesting book on different types of cigarette butts?”

“Yep,” Reid agreed offhandedly, focusing all his attention on pouring his coffee. His head was throbbing and he didn’t have the cognitive space to appease Morgan right now. He needed to get back to his routine. Coffee, files, debrief, plane, solve the case, come back home. Anything to make the buzzing underneath his skin go away.   
  
“Um, okay,” Morgan said slowly, his good mood deflating slightly. He knew Reid was shutting him out. Otherwise, he would have started a tangent on the differences between said cigarette butts. “Hey, hey, hey, easy on the sugar man! You’re gonna have a heart attack! We need our boy wonder.”   
  
“Contrary to what you and everyone else on the team seem to think when they criticize my sugar habit, I am not a child, Morgan!” Reid snapped, continuing to dump sugar into his coffee until it was a dark sludge. 

“Okay, sorry man,” Morgan muttered. “You alright? You seem a little on edge.” 

“I’m fine,” Reid bit back. 

“And you’d tell me if anything was wrong?” Morgan gently prodded. He didn’t fail to notice Reid loosening his tie slightly. 

“Yes,” Reid said, finally taking time to look at Morgan. “I have a headache. We should probably head up.” Without another word, he quickly walked up to the conference room, without waiting for Morgan. Morgan frowned, and followed him up. 

Once everyone was gathered around the table, Garcia began spitting out her typical facts—location, that the crime scene was too gory for her to look at, victims, where the local PD was with the case…

But Reid couldn’t focus. He was too busy trying to block out Morgan’s strong cologne, the clicking of the remote Garcia was using, the cool air conditioning forming goosebumps on his forearms, the bright lights attacking his pupils, everything, everything, everything…

“Reid?” 

How could it be both hot and cold in one room? How could he be sweating bullets and shivering simultaneously? Why hadn’t maintenance fixed that one flickering bulb in the corner that was buzzing? It was deafening. 

“Spencer?”

Reid snapped his gaze up from where his hands had been wringing. He didn’t even realize Gideon had been talking. 

“Sorry, yes?”

“I expected an input by now,” Gideon stated. He didn’t look upset, but Reid still felt disappointment radiating from the man.

Reid glanced at the file sitting in front of him, praying he could absorb the information before his team noticed he hadn’t been paying attention. His eyes quickly scanned the page, trying not to focus on the flickering bulb. 

“I’d say we look at the husband. I know it’s cliché, but it is common, especially given the similarity all the victims have to his first wife.”

“How common?” Hotch asked without looking up from his file. 

“Uh…26 percent,” Reid spluttered, his mind running rampant. Percentages, percentages, men were much more likely to commit spousal murder than women. Women were more likely to kill out of self-defense. But spousal murders barely made up any significant percentage of annual murders. The husband definitely was the killer. Or was he? Why was his coffee crawling up his throat? Throat, throat, throat, there was no sign of abuse. Top signs—neck bruising, arm bruising, withdrawal from social situations, controlling behavior, withdrawal, withdrawal, no, he was over that. His skin was crawling. 

“I don’t know,” JJ supplemented, drawing Reid from his spiraling perseveration. “Local PD have a solid abili—” Oh god her voice was too loud. 

“It’s not my fault they’re stupid enough not to press him, and that you’re naïve enough to believe that,” Reid snapped, much to the muted shock in the room. JJ looked stunned at his outburst. His coffee was rapidly turning his stomach and he was shocked the file in front of him wasn’t doused in sweat. The light would _not stop flickering._ Everything began to close in, and Reid felt his head begin to spin at the assault on his senses. His pen was slipping between his fingers, and his coffee was sourly slipping up his throat. 

Reid muttered some sort of excuse about the bathroom and fled. 

It took approximately 16 seconds to get to the restroom, where Reid promptly emptied the few contents of his stomach into the toilet. He tried holding back tears, but the combination of the overstimulation and the bile sitting in the back of his throat had a different idea. 

“Come on,” Reid muttered to himself. “Not today, please.” 

He flushed the toilet, and after a few moments forced himself to stand up on shaky legs. He turned on the faucet, splashing cold water on his face, eyes clenched shut to block out the strong light. That might have been a mistake. Goosebumps continued to form on his skin as excess droplets crept down his shirt collar. He rolled down his sleeves, hoping it would keep him from shivering. The feeling of the rough fabric was almost unbearable against his skin, but perhaps it was the lesser of two evils. 

It was at that moment he heard a harsh knocking _like stabbing behind his eyes_ before Morgan unceremoniously barged in, crossing the space between the two in less than a second. 

“Reid, what’s going on?”

Reid finished wiping his mouth, making eye contact with the agent in the mirror. “I told you, I have a headache.” He snatched paper towels out of the dispenser, running them over his hands and briefly across his forehead. 

“Reid,” Morgan said, lowering his voice, “If you need to…go see a movie, the team understands.”

Reid felt bile rise up his throat again, and the back of his eyes prickled with anger. “I can’t believe…Derek, I’ve been clean for four months, I swear. How could you even think--”

“Then tell me what’s going on, man!” Morgan interrupted, encroaching on Reid’s space and placing a hand on his forehead before he could object. “Are you sick?”

“Stop!” Reid exclaimed, jumping away from Morgan’s touch. The unwanted physical contact sent him over the edge, and he felt tears finally start dripping down his face. “Please don’t touch me. Just…stop. Too much.” His voice was incredibly small as he slid onto the floor, feeling slightly grounded by the cool tile beneath him. 

Morgan was more confused than he had ever been as Reid began rocking in place between the corner of the wall and sink. The movements were tiny, but still enough for the other agent to notice. Reid was tapping his thigh in a pattern Morgan didn’t recognize with one hand, and the other was covering one ear. His head was nudged between one hand his shoulder, and his eyes were pinched shut. Morgan had never seen him exhibit this behavior before, but it slowly started clicking into place. 

“Hey, are you…Is this some sort of genius breakdown?” Morgan asked, half-joking with a hint of seriousness. He had seen Reid upset and storm off before, but this was something new. 

The younger agent began to hum, effectively blocking out Morgan. It took a few moments before the realization began to creep over Morgan as he replayed the past few minutes in his head. Maybe this actually was a genius breakdown. Morgan, careful of his distance, lowered himself down onto the floor. He kept his voice quiet. 

“You said ‘too much.’ Reid, are you overstimulated?”

Nothing. 

Morgan realized Reid couldn’t hear him over the humming, and bent down to his level. “Spencer?”

Reid nodded, his eyes still pinched shut as tears leaked out. His humming had gotten louder, and the tapping had increased in both speed and intensity. 

“Uh…Just give me a minute, yeah? I’ll be right back. I’ll bring your bag. Stay here.” Morgan wasn’t even sure if Reid had heard him, but it didn’t look like the kid would be moving anytime soon. 

Morgan marched out of the bathroom. It appeared the team had finished their debrief, as JJ was collecting files on her desk. He immediately found Hotch, who was grabbing a go-bag from beneath his desk. 

When he entered the office, Hotch looked up. “Where is he?”

“He’s in the bathroom. There’s something wrong, Hotch. He’s freaking out, but I don’t think it’s anxiety,” Morgan replied hesitantly. “I don’t know. I thought he was using, but I’ve never seen him like this. I think he’s overstimulated.”

Hotch remained silent for a moment. He took a deep breath before speaking, his brow furrowing slightly. “We’ll leave here for Houston in an hour; we’ll say there was an issue with the jet. If he isn’t ready by then, he’ll have to stay here. I think he’s got some stuff in his bag for this, I’ll grab it. Go tell Garcia.” 

Morgan nodded, confused about what Garcia could offer the man. If he was overstimulated, it didn’t seem like Garcia’s colorful personality would be calming. Maybe she had some sort of herbal tincture? Or something stronger? He wouldn’t put it past her. 

“Hey Mama, you busy?” Morgan asked, walking into Garcia’s lair. 

Garcia whipped her chair around, smiling as she recognized his voice. “Never for you, sweet cheeks.” She instantly picked up on Morgan’s mood, and her perky smile morphed into concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Reid is overstimulated,” Morgan explained. “Hotch said you might have something to help?”

“Oh. Of course,” Garcia quickly replied. She hustled around to the corner of her office where she grabbed a large foldable chair, the kind Morgan had seen at football practices. She began unfolding it and spread a fuzzy blanket on top. 

“I would never allow you to touch my beautiful screens under normal circumstances, but this is a special case. Each of the computer monitors has a switch on the back that turns them off. Go around and press them all for me? I have a hard time reaching them in these shoes. Plus I like the view.” 

Morgan raised an eyebrow and chuckled, walking towards the monitors hooked to the wall. “You’re not gonna lose anything important?”  
  
“Oh my adorable husky, that doesn’t delete information. It just turns off the screens, while all the important stuff stays on my main computer. One day I will teach you how I work my magic…or make you take a basic community college computer course.”

Morgan let out a snort as he finished turning off the monitors. “So what, I tell Reid to just come in here? He doesn’t seem like he’s gonna want to move right now.” 

Garcia nodded as she turned off the rest of her lights. “He will. It’s happened a few times. Now go get our poor Boy Wonder.” 

Morgan nodded, making his way back to the men’s bathroom. 

_A few times? How long as Reid been experiencing these overloads?_

When he reached the bathroom, Morgan noticed a sticky note on the door that read “Out of Order” in Hotch’s distinctive scrawl. When he opened the door, his heart sunk a little at the scene before him. 

Hotch was crouched in front of Reid, his face softened in a way Morgan had only seen when his boss was talking to Jack. Reid’s satchel was overturned—papers, pens, an insane amount of colored sharpies, sugar packets, coins, and a few small toys littered the bathroom floor. Reid had a large pair of headphones on, and was chewing on something that appeared to be a small piece of blue rubber. He seemed to be done crying, but his eyes were still clenched shut in a way that only accentuated the redness of his face. Hotch turned around to face Morgan. 

“Is Garcia ready?”

Morgan nodded, trying not to gape at the unfamiliar scene in front of him. 

Hotch gently placed a hand on Reid’s shoe, garnering his attention without making direct physical contact. Registering the touch, Reid hesitantly removed one headphone. 

“Garcia’s ready,” Hotch muttered softly. “Are you ready to head over?” 

Reid nodded. He slowly pushed himself off the ground, his eyes falling to the mess on the floor. He let out a high-pitched whine and approached the mess, his fingers seeming to resume their endless tapping on this thigh. 

“Reid, I’ll take care of it,” Hotch stated. He lowered his head slightly until Reid made eye contact. “Go ahead with Morgan. I’ll try to put everything back in its place, and you can fix whatever I mess up later.”

Reid didn’t seem completely happy with the answer but nodded tentatively. He looked up at Morgan but didn't make eye contact, fixated on a point past his shoulder.

Morgan reached out a hand to lead Reid’s shoulder, but then pulled back, thinking better of it. Instead he opened the door, allowing Reid to follow him. The agent’s head occasionally twitched to the side, his headphones bumping against his shoulder. 

When they got to Garcia’s office, Morgan was shocked at the change. The once colorful, blinking space had mellowed out to low lighting and something that vaguely smelled like lavender. The only light in the room was the soft glow of a candle on the corner of her desk. 

Reid didn’t need to be led—he instantly made his way over to the fluffy chair in a way that seemed routine and plopped down, his impossibly long limbs curling up in the chair. His eyes slipped shut. One hand was tapping, while the other gripped the rubber mouthpiece. 

“Come on, sugar, let’s give him a few minutes and get some coffee,” Garcia whispered, grabbing his arm. She closed the door to her office quietly. 

Morgan followed her out (he seemed to be doing a lot of that today) into the bullpen, where the two began to make coffee. Hotch reappeared holding Reid’s satchel. It looked comically out of place on the man, who was holding it with one hand rather than using the strap Reid always relied on. After carefully setting the bag back on Reid’s desk, he made his way over to the coffee station. 

Hotch glanced at his watch. “I’d say we have about fifteen minutes before he’s ready. Might as well indulge.” 

Morgan hesitated before asking the question that had been gnawing on his mind this entire ordeal, breaking the silence. 

“Am I the only one who didn’t know about this?” He tried to sound concerned, because he truly was, but cringed slightly when it came out as harsh. 

Hotch looked up. “Morgan, I think you know Reid trusts you more than anyone on this team. He told me as his supervisor, not as his friend. I wish it was been the latter. He was worried about some sort of overload happening in the field. It’s not that he doesn’t trust you; he’s embarrassed. People already treat him like a child. This would have been the nail in the coffin.” 

Morgan nodded, looking towards Garcia, who had been silent. 

“My office was the only quiet one away from everyone else. He came in for the first time last year, and there have been a few more,” Garcia said, her voice soft and sympathetic. Morgan nodded, taking a sip of coffee. He understood why Reid was hesitant to tell him—sure, the kid had headaches, but in the two years they had worked together he had never seen anything like this. 

“What about Gideon?” Morgan asked. 

Hotch hesitated. “Gideon…tries. He knew Reid had some quirks when he signed him on, but he didn’t understand the true extent. He doesn’t understand them, but he doesn’t try to. I think he forgets that everyone is human.” Hotch looked back at his watch. “I’m going to make sure JJ has called the Houston office and let them know we’ll be out shortly. Go let Reid know we’re leaving in thirty minutes.”

Garcia took a step forward before Morgan blocked her path. “If it’s okay, I want to talk to him.”

“Of course,” Garcia responded. “I could always load up on more sugar to give you during the case,” Garcia winked, grabbing her own mug. “Give him my love.”

“You know I will,” Morgan said, flashing her a smile. He walked down to Garcia’s office. He took a deep breath before opening the door. Reid had not changed positions, but his shoulders were slumped instead of clenched, wrapped up in the fuzzy blanket Garcia had supplied. That seemed to be a good sign. Reid opened his eyes at the intrusion of light and gently took off his headphones as Morgan closed the door. The rubber piece fell out of his mouth and was placed back in his pocket. He offered a soft smile as Morgan sat in Garcia’s desk chair. 

“How are you doing?” Morgan asked. 

“Uh, better. Tired,” Reid admitted, his voice slightly hoarse. “Thanks for, uh…” he moved his hands around in a vague motion. 

“Don’t mention it, kid,” Morgan said, slightly wincing when he remembered Hotch’s comment about Reid being self-conscious about his youth. “Reid, why didn’t you tell me?”

Reid paused and began rubbing his thighs. He didn’t make eye contact. “It hasn’t really been an issue,” he muttered. “It doesn’t happen often.”

“But you didn’t give me a statistic,” Morgan responded, “which makes me think this happens more often than you wanna admit. But I don't know what _this_ is."

"Overstimulated. Meltdown. Sensory overload. Genius freak out. Whatever you want to call it," Reid said. "I sometimes...Certain noises and smells and textures can get overwhelming. Sometimes it's if I haven't slept very well, other times it happens for no reason. It was a lot worse when I was younger. But suddenly everything happens at once and my brain doesn't know what to do with all the input. So I just need a little bit of time alone to minimize sensory factors and..." Reid looked around the room with all the monitors, "reboot, I guess. I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't apologize," Morgan insisted, smiling at Reid's word choice. Garcia would have been so touched. "That’s okay. You have nothing to apologize for, but you gotta make me a deal. Let me know if you feel it coming on next time. Regardless of what you think, I don’t see you as a child—I see you as a colleague, and more importantly, my friend. You have to know I wouldn’t have made fun of you.”

Reid smiled. “I know. I was going to tell you, eventually. But then Hankel happened and…”

“You don’t have to justify yourself to me,” Morgan reassured. “I just want to help in the future. This doesn't change anything.”

“Thank you,” Reid replied, a small smile gracing his features. He began to stand up, his attention instantly refocused. “How long until wheels up?”

“Twenty minutes,” Morgan responded. “Hotch told Houston we had an issue with the jet.”

The two got up to leave the office. Reid grabbed his headphones and shrugged the blanket from his shoulders. 

Morgan looked back. “I don't know if this is overstepping, but I've gotta ask. What’s with the chew piece?”

“Helps ground me,” Reid said. “Keeps me from chewing off the inside of my mouth.”

“Reid, you know what Freud would say about that oral fixation, right?”

Reid stared at Morgan, his face curling up in a characteristic smirk. “Fuck Freud. Jung holds more credibility anyways. I have Asperger’s, not mommy issues.” And with that, the doctor walked out, leaving Morgan gaping behind him. 

“Touché, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> COVID-free kisses! Thanks for reading, drop me a lil line if you liked it! Got a huge research presentation coming up and it would totally make my week.


	3. Echolalia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHHH I seriously cannot believe how well this story has been received. Over 140 kudos for 2 chapters?? You all are the best and are way too kind to me. Sorry for the delay--this is a new chapter rather than a pre-written one! Hectic past two weeks (but was it worth it to win Best Undergrad Presentation at a regional parasitology conference?? Mostly.) Hope the length makes up for it. 
> 
> Here we have a whole lotta angst so buckle in kiddos. Despite my re-writing 6 times I think you'll like it.

“Garcia, are you sure…”

“Yes,” she interrupted, eyes flicking to their resident genius, who was sitting on his couch with his gaze fixated on the opposite wall.

Hotch had been with Reid at his apartment for the past half hour while Garcia ran back to her apartment to grab clothes, blankets, and a few more creature comforts.

Hotch sighed. “I still don’t think this is a good idea,” he said quietly. “He should be under medical supervision. I know it’s not what he wants, but…,” he trailed off, pinching the bridge of his nose and pressing his fingers into his tired eyes until he saw stars.

_“Hotch, please,” Reid begged, squirming in the ambulance as the EMT struggled to take his vitals. “I’m fine, I feel fine, I don’t want to go to the hospital. I just want to go home.”_

_“I know,” Hotch urged. “But they need to do a CT scan. You definitely have a concussion, and probably an infection from where he hit your feet. They’re starting to bleed.”_

_The EMT nodded in agreement, removing the stethoscope from his ears and placing it around his neck. “He’s got an intermediate grade fever, heart rate’s at 112, and BP is low but steady. Likely infection, dehydration, and concussion; they’ll want a CT, general write up, bloodwork, push fluids…”_

_“No needles,” Reid implored, trying to sit up before the EMT coaxed him back down. Reid seemed frantic, his eyes darting around the ambulance, but his body movements were sluggish and weak. This was not the Reid they were all used too—blood was dried around his temple, his feet were covered in bruises and lacerations that were beginning to swell, and his face had streaks of dirt on it. Parts of his hair were sticking up at odd angles, while the rest was matted down onto his forehead with a combination of sweat and blood._

_Yeah, this wasn’t the Reid they were used to._

_Then again, this wasn’t a situation they were used to._

_“Reid, it will only take a minute,” Hotch said. “I think needles are the last of your concerns.”_

_“No, no, no, no,” Reid chanted, his voice gradually raising in pitch. He looked up at the older agent, eyes pleading. “Hotch, I can’t, not right now, I can’t,” he said, wringing his hands and aggressively pulling at one finger with this other hand in a rapid and repetitive fashion._

_“Okay,” Hotch quickly conceded, the onset of the stimming worrying him. Reid had a multitude of stims, and they wouldn’t normally be a cause for concern. But it was clear that shock was beginning to set in. This wasn’t a panic Reid had ever experienced; at the moment, Hotch couldn’t tell the difference between what might be normal, and what might be the tell-tale signs of a severe meltdown. “Okay, no needles. But they have to do a scan.”_

_The EMT threw Hotch a look, but he wasn’t in the mood to argue. Aaron was only going to insist on the barest necessary treatment. Normally he would want Reid to undergo an entire assessment, but it was clear at this moment it would do more harm than good._

_“If I can’t sedate him, is there another way to calm him down?” The EMT asked. “I need him to keep his neck and shoulders still. He could have a subdural hematoma.”_

_“Did you hear him, Reid? You need to be still. I know it’s hard. But if you can be still for a few more minutes, they won’t have to use a neck cage. And no needles, I promise,” Hotch said, wincing at the empty promises falling from his lips. He really had no way to control that. At this point, he would promise the moon to calm Spencer down._

_That promise did nothing to pull Reid back in, who was beginning to bite the inside of his cheeks, eyes pinched shut. His hands still were moving in a flurry, which shook his entire frame in the process. Aaron felt his chest ache for the younger man, but he knew Reid wouldn’t respond to coddling or pity. He needed structure; he needed something familiar to ground him._

_“Reid,” Hotch said loudly, summoning as much vocal authority as he could. That caused the agent’s eyes to snap open. One of his pupils was slightly larger than the other, no doubt from the concussion. Hotch swallowed thickly, trying to push down the concern that was creeping up his throat. “We’re almost there. They are going to give you a CT scan, look at your feet, and then we’ll go home if they clear you. Do you understand?”_

**_I knew you’d understand._ **

****

_Aaron shuddered, unable to stop the words from minutes ago from replaying in his head. He looked back down to the agent lying in front of him._

_Reid nodded but winced as his head moved against the gurney. He was still fidgeting, but to a diminished degree._

_“Reid, repeat it. Tell me the plan,” Hotch ordered._

_“CT….please no needles, Hotch. I can’t, I can’t…”_

_“Reid. Tell me the plan,” Hotch repeated firmly._

_“CT. Feet. Home,” Reid echoed._

_“Good,” Hotch said, some of the tension easing from his chest. “Again.”_

_“CT. Feet. Home. CT. Feet. Home. CT. Feet. Home,” Reid repeated, his motions slackening as his arms gradually came to rest at his sides, fingers slowly tapping against the gurney beneath him._

Hotch opened his eyes and lowered his hand from his face. The EMT had been right—Reid was given a course of broad-spectrum antibiotics to take for the next week, and while the CT hadn’t shown a hematoma, his loss of consciousness indicated a Grade 3 concussion. Despite every fiber of his being resisting, Hotch had asserted that unless Reid absolutely needed to stay in the hospital, he was to be discharged to fly back with the rest of the team as quickly as possible. He hoped he hadn’t made the wrong call.

_He had tried not to snap at the multiple doctors and nurses who protested. They were just doing their jobs. Aaron knew better than anyone the rules that had to be followed, that procedures from a higher power dictated every move and that hospital regulations were no different. He calmly felt himself slip into lawyer mode—gently prod until they can’t ignore you, make your points succinct and therefore irrefutable, always fight for the option with the least amount of harm for the greatest amount of good._

_Maybe he had been a little more aggressive than he needed to, but seeing Reid in a hospital gown being wheeled to a CT machine had only strengthened his resolve._

_The youngest on their team had gone through more than any of them, and he would be damned if he didn’t advocate when the younger man was unequipped to._

_On the jet, the exhaustion had hit Spencer like a freight train. He said nothing as he immediately laid down on the couch, one arm curled under his head until Gideon silently offered him a rolled-up jacket. The flight back to Quantico had been silent with the exception of the low rumble of the engine. Aaron felt like an intruder as he caught Gideon watching Reid on the couch, like he was caught staring at something deeply private. Jason had been pretty quiet throughout the entire ordeal, his face unreadable. But on the jet, Gideon’s eyes never left Reid. He simply watched Spencer like he was watching one of his birds—calculated and cataloging, but it was clear it was disguising something deeper. He had simply nodded when Aaron mentioned he would drive Reid home, and someone would stay with him._

_So Hotch and Reid sat silently in his apartment, waiting for Penelope to arrive. He had been tempted to break the silence, to make Spencer talk, but couldn’t bring himself to. He would let Reid have his silence to process. They would talk about it later when Reid wasn’t exhausted and near dissociation. Despite following law as an initial profession, Aaron had learned that listening was much more important than speaking. He knew Reid would struggle with trying to process the past two days. He knew it would be filled with endless permutations and questions, an analytical approach rather than a personal one. Spencer barely opened up to the team as it was. So until Reid was comfortable talking, Hotch was alright just sitting with him in the silence, letting him feel the unspoken “we’re here for you, but on your own time” until Reid felt comfortable making the first move._

Hotch looked back at Garcia, who was waiting patiently for a response. “Strauss is demanding I come back and give a full status report immediately. I can return as soon as I’m finished, but I can’t see her being anything less than thorough.”

“Sir, I can do this,” Penelope affirmed. “I’ve got tonight.”

“And you’ll call me with _any_ problems?”

“Of course, sir. Wake him up every three hours, check for a fever, and make sure he’s hydrated. I can text you every hour if it makes you feel better. Go placate Strauss and see Jack, and you can take over tomorrow morning. We’ll be fine,” Penelope repeated. The slight tremble of her voice suggested differently but Aaron attributed it to empathy rather than uncertainty.

“Thank you, Garcia,” Hotch said, throwing Reid one last glance. The tech analyst placed her hand gently against his arm.

“Go,” she said softly. He hesitated for another second before offering a brisk nod and walked out of the door. Penelope took a deep breath before grabbing her bag and making her way over to the couch where Reid was sitting. His gaze appeared to be fixated on the wall, but she could recognize the thousand-yard stare anywhere. She gently sat down, careful to mind his space.

“Hey sweetie,” she said. “I know you’ve got to be exhausted. Why don’t you go lay down? I’ll be here all night.”

Reid minutely shook his head but made no other noise, his eyes still somewhere far off.

“Okay,” Garcia said, frowning slightly. “Do you want me to make some tea? I brought a bunch of snacks.”

Nothing.

Garcia took a deep breath. She knew his behavior was completely justified. She wanted nothing more than to wrap the genius in a bone-crushing hug and never let go. But she also knew that was probably the last thing we wanted. 

“Reid, I…if you don’t want to talk that’s okay. You don’t have to do anything. I know sometimes you have a hard time putting your feelings into words, and no dictionary on earth could possibly have the words for what you’re probably feeling. If you don’t want me to do anything that’s fine, but it hurts to know that you are suffering and there’s nothing I can do to help,” Garcia said, her words coming out in a painful jumble as tears pricked her eyes. “Oh gosh I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be upset when you’re the one…”

Garcia exhaled deeply as her sentence trailed off, trying to collect herself. “I’m sorry, you know I don’t handle silence well. But I’m here. Tell me what you need. I’m not a profiler, angel. If you need anything, you gotta tell me. I’m your friend, and I will listen for as long as you need…oh.”

Reid’s facial expression had not changed. But his eyes had. They were still vacant but were beginning to fill with tears. The younger agent made no attempt to look at her, still staring stubbornly at the wall. His hands were fisted in his lap.

“Oh dear,” Garcia gasped quietly. “I’m so sorry. Do you want me to call someone else? Morgan? JJ?” she asked, pulling out her sparkly phone.

“No,” Reid said quickly, his first spoken word in hours filling the air between them. He began biting the inside of his cheek. He looked frustrated.

“Okay,” Garcia said, placing her phone down. “Can you tell me what you need?”

Reid looked back down to his hands, shaking his head again. He was clearly frustrated, and Penelope felt helpless. She was a physical person. She gravitated towards handholding and hugs and anything she could do to show affection and comfort. This was totally out of her comfort zone.

The next words out of Reid’s mouth were so quiet that Penelope almost missed them.

“Oh, but there’s a power in words. If I can find the right one. If I can just know you.”

Garcia looked at Reid quizzically, waiting for him to finish his sentence. He didn’t. The words seemed so incomplete and out of character for the man.

“Are those your words or someone else’s?” Garcia asked slowly. Reid just nodded slightly.

Garcia picked up her phone from the couch. “Give me a second,” she said. “I’ll figure it out.” A quick Google search and Garcia chuckled.

“Quoting the Tenth Doctor? Nice choice,” Garcia smiled. When Reid remained quiet, Garcia felt a tiny little light bulb spark in her head.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea, no words required,” Garcia said eagerly. She began rummaging through her bag. “Go put on some comfy clothes. The whole ‘bookworm in a vest’ works very well for you, but I can’t imagine it’s comfortable. Then come back in here.”

Reid stood up slowly, his long limbs gently uncurling with creaks and a few sharp inhales. He remained standing for a moment before looking back at Garcia.

“Room and PJs,” Garcia prodded, sadly watching as Reid limped to his room on bruised feet. She pulled her laptop from her bag and set it on the coffee table, and grabbed her sweatpants and fluffy blanket. Once she heard the quiet click of his bedroom door she changed into her pajamas. She opened her laptop in a smooth and familiar fashion.

It was no secret that Penelope filled her office with bright things and happy pens and obscure mugs to distract from the horror she saw on her screens every day. In college, she had loved the familiar embrace of the internet. Everyone made code seem cold and difficult to understand; she found it familiar and welcoming. It didn’t resemble the heartless void that so many made it out to be. Opening her laptop was opening the front door to a family home. Despite having to take on a harsher and much darker persona to fit in with other hackers, bubbly Penelope felt most at ease behind layers of binary and flashing screens.

Then she got caught, and Aaron Hotchner gave her another option. She could use her skills to make a difference, something bigger than subtly mocking larger corporations through viruses and impossible firewalls. Suddenly instead of digitally taunting others with indifference, she found herself seeking information with passion. She was no longer harshly shutting doorways and limiting opportunities—she was creating them for a greater good. But that didn’t come without a price.

Suddenly her screen was filled with bodies and missing children and records that reeked of a never-ending cycle of abuse. And every day there were more and more cases. She was tormented by the feeling that the more she discovered, the more helpless she felt. Her new life involved snooping into the lives of complete strangers with a clinical approach, unsealing sealed documents that had the potential to ruin a life, finding addresses within seconds, following paper trails of behavioral residue people weren’t even aware they left. The more efficient she became, the more she felt herself slipping back into the apathy she thought she had let go of long ago. So if she was a little too invested, too over-involved, too sensitive, it was because she preferred to drown in empathy than swim in shallow, cold indifference.

Penelope pulled up a familiar page, setting the laptop screen to low brightness on the coffee table. She spread her fuzzy purple blanket on the couch patiently.

When Reid returned to the living room, Garcia smiled. He was wearing a long-sleeved t-shirt, sweatpants, and some sort of multi-colored robe. It seemed so out of character on the man. He seemed to prefer layers—vests, sweaters, scarves. And looking at him in a t-shirt, Garcia could see why. He was so thin, all angles and hard lines. With so little body fat, he had to be constantly freezing. His feet stuck out awkwardly beneath his robe, two mismatched socks peeking out. Garcia tried to ignore how tight the socks were, covering the excessive bandages underneath. His face was blank, but his eyes were red-rimmed.

Garcia hesitated for a moment before speaking. She was reaching out on a limb but hoped the man understood her intentions.

“It’s..it’s afraid. Terribly afraid and powerful,” Garcia quoted, racking her brain for the memorable Lost Child episode. “It doesn’t know it yet, but it will. It’s got the power of a god and I just sent it to its room.”

Penelope felt her heart shatter when Reid’s head snapped up, his eyes wide.

_Oh shit, Penelope. You really screwed up._

And then he smiled. It was small and bittersweet, barely more than the twitch of his lips upwards, but she couldn’t help but feel pleased. She understood, and now he understood that _she_ understood. They would talk, his way, through misplaced quotes until he could find his own words.

“I knew you’d understand,” Reid muttered. Penelope wasn’t sure if he was talking directly to her, or simply repeating what he had whispered to Hotch mere hours ago upon his rescue.

“Come on,” Garcia beckoned, patting the spot on his couch next to her. She lifted the blanket as he braced the side of the couch, trying to hide a wince as he sat down. She threw the blanket over his lap, careful to maintain the foot of space he had placed between them. He squinted his eyes at the laptop screen and smiled before looking away.

“I know you’re not supposed to watch screens with a concussion, but I figured you have them all memorized already, so might as well listen. Plus I lowered the brightness. So Doctor Reid, which Doctor shall we start off with?”

“Allons-y?” Reid asked.

“That gives me two options,” Garcia clarified. “Anything else?”

Reid paused for a moment. His eyes traveled to the door. Garcia looked over, confused. Then she spotted the Converse tucked against the doorframe.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Garcia smiled, clicking the web page and reaching back into her bag. She pulled out 3 large bottles of Pedialyte and handed one to Reid. “Drink up!”

Spencer screwed off the top and took a tentative sip, frowning in disgust. “There’s no point in being a grown-up if you can’t be childish sometimes,” he muttered. Garcia smiled at the quote, the image of Reid wearing a far-too-long scarf bringing her some much-needed joy. Maybe that would be her next project.

“Finish that and I can make jello later,” Garcia promised. With that, Reid took another sip before placing it on the table and sinking back into the couch. Garcia smiled and pushed play, letting the familiar theme song and the Tenth Doctor’s erratic movements wash over her. She tried to focus on the screen but felt her eyes traveling back to Reid every few seconds.

For the first few minutes, he had tried keeping his eyes fixed on the show, but they glanced away every few seconds. His hands were fisted in the blanket, fingers twitching excitedly every once in a while. Even at low brightness, the screen must have still been bothering his head, as he continued making short attempts to squint before looking away. He let his head fall gently onto the back of the couch, but his lips were silently mouthing the dialogue of the episode almost perfectly.

This continued for an entire episode. When the credits began to roll, Garcia made no motion to move, allowing it automatically play the next episode. Reid shifted, getting up to use the bathroom. Garcia pretended to nonchalantly check her phone but kept her ears perked for any noise indicating distress. When none came, she turned her attention back to her phone, typing a quick message to Hotch and JJ.

**Doing well. Hydrating and resting, but he doesn’t want to sleep. A little shut-down.**

She wasn’t surprised when she received an instant response from Hotch.

Understandable. Prentiss is with JJ, I think she’s asleep. Keep me updated. 

Penelope exhaled, shutting off her phone. Her heart was with JJ as well, but Prentiss had already agreed to take her home. She would go visit tomorrow. She couldn’t imagine what JJ was going through—she and JJ were similar in that they hadn’t exactly signed on for fieldwork. She had felt JJ’s relief when they found Reid, which was instantly replaced by guilt for splitting up. JJ’s eyes hadn’t left him when he was being treated at the hospital and were still watching him on the jet until she succumbed to her own exhaustion.

Reid exited the bathroom. Somehow, he looked infinitely more tired than he had when he entered. 

“How are you feeling?” Penelope asked softly.

“He doesn’t understand. There’s not enough of him left,” Reid recited quietly, pushing the base of his palm into his eye as he remained standing. His other hand hanging at his side began moving at random intervals. If she hadn’t known better, and if it had been anyone else, she would have been concerned. But she recognized his frustrated pattern as he struggled for words. 

“What don’t you understand?” Penelope asked gently.

“I’m not a sinner!” Reid shouted abruptly. His voice was rough as he swallowed, his angry words becoming a rapid stream of frustrated arguments. “He kept asking what I needed to repent for, but I’m not a sinner! I know every line of the Bible. Maybe I only know the literal meanings and not the intention behind them, but that’s all they make school children do anyways. Maybe I missed the deeper connotations because somehow I always seem to, but I am not a sinner! I have nothing to confess. I have nothing to confess. I hav—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Penelope interjected, sitting up straight. Her immediate response was to stand up, but she wanted to give Spencer his space. “I mean, no, it’s not okay. No part of this is okay. But you need to understand that he wasn’t…he wasn’t well in the head. Sweetie, he thought he was an angel. Well, at least part of him did. But you are not a sinner. You have nothing to apologize for.”

“I wasn’t before,” Reid murmured. “But I certainly am now. Isn’t that ironic?”

“How?” Garcia asked. She knew what might be coming next, but wanted to hear him say it loud, perhaps so he might see the flawed logic in his self-critique.

“I killed Tobias. And he was the only one trying to help me. I killed an innocent man.”

“And you did so to get rid of two other alters that would have killed more,” Garcia asserted.

“’Leviticus 24:17—And if a man takes a life of anyone else, he must surely be put to death’,” Reid recited. “I don’t think the Bible contemplates the nuances of multiple personalities when discussing murder. There’s only one response.”

“And that’s the point!” Garcia contended. “I know that in that big, beautiful brain of yours, everything is black and white. But the real world isn’t. You weren’t there, but Gideon said something about ‘perverting the word of God to justify murder.’ Reid, if Tobias really practiced what he preached, you would have never been in that situation in the first place.”

“Charles. And Raphael,” Reid corrected. “Not Tobias.”

“Right, sorry,” Garcia remedied. She didn’t really understand how multiple personalities worked, but it seemed to be important to Reid. “Following the Bible and what his father had previously taught him versus what Charles wanted at the end literally drove Tobias to a split. You have to see the unrealistic expectation there. There is no way to win; he set up an impossible scenario. Morality doesn’t have the nice clean black and white division of a chessboard. There’s a lot more…gray area.”

Garcia watched as Reid’s eyes flickered back and forth as if he was trying to run actual probabilities in his head. Again, his palm fisted into his eye in frustration. He eventually sighed, his shoulders sagging as he remained standing in his living room.

“I’m sorry, Garcia,” Spencer said, his voice quiet and constricted. “M-My head just really hurts.”

“I know, babes,” Garcia said, unable to stop the term of endearment before it left her lips. She motioned for him to sit back down on the couch, taking advantage of his new-found speech. “If you don’t know, that’s okay, but I’m going to ask again. What do you need?”

“To make my head stop buzzing.”

“Okay,” she said. “How are you feeling about contact right now?”

“Where?” Reid asked, his voice shaking.

“Up to you,” Garcia reassured. “But whenever I had a headache as a child my mom would give me the best head scratches. And I think, if you’re okay with it, it might be something nice for you to focus on. It’s completely up to you. I understand if you don’t want to be touched right now.”

Reid contemplated for a moment, biting his lip. Having made up his mind with a quick nod, he sat down on the tattered couch next to Garcia, eyes focused forward on the laptop that was still playing. Garcia tried not to chuckle at the formal and clinical manner with which he was approaching physical comfort.

_I need to remind Morgan to ruffle his hair more._

She carefully wrapped an arm halfway across a twitchy shoulder, slowly sinking her fingers into his hair. He tensed briefly, but once her fingers began lightly scraping the surface, he began to relax. It wasn’t instantaneous; his shoulders finally dropped from their tense position, and slowly different areas of his body made the transition from constricted to lax. She tried to avoid the tender lump near the top of his head, knowing that pressure there would be painful rather than comforting.

And so they sat like that for a few minutes—Garcia watching Doctor Who, but focusing on the screen only to ensure Reid didn’t feel like a spectacle. The moment she focused excessively on her actions would be the moment Reid would run away, too afraid of being a burden. So they sat in silence, just two friends watching TV, both trying to forget the scenario they were in. They were both trying to ignore that while everything might be peaceful for this moment, the repercussions of the past two days would last months down the road. In this moment, they weren’t agents or victims; they were two friends enjoying the mere presence of the other.

Garcia had been lost in her own train of thought when she felt Reid’s head fall forward just the tiniest amount before he snapped it back up, struck by a brief moment of disorientation.

And then upon remembering where he was, he wordlessly shifted down on the couch, placing his head tentatively in Garcia’s lap before shutting his eyes. Penelope froze. She wanted to work through the swirl of emotions that filled her chest—happiness at this display of trust, grief at what it took to get there, worry for the next few days, the relief that he was okay, grief, so much grief.

She pushed it away, reminding herself that they would deal with the repercussions tomorrow. Right now he needed her to remain exactly where she was and to keep a positive mindset. She looked down to where one of his hands was slowly fiddling with a tassel of the blanket between her lap and his head. His motions had slowed down significantly from the anxiety-ridden movements she had witnessed earlier, which she took as a good sign.

When she repositioned herself slightly to get better access to his head, she almost missed the sigh escaping the young genius.

“All these years I’ve been the cleverest man around. Next to you, I know nothing,” Reid said, half jumbled against the fluffy blanket.

“I love you too, you clever man” Garcia chuckled. Of course he would reference a Doctor Who episode with Shakespeare.

“You never take the time to imagine the impossible,” she said slowly, trying not to betray the tears filling her eyes, “that maybe you survive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Any DW fans out there?? Haven't really watched since high school but Tennant will always have a soft spot in my heart. As usual, if you liked it, I would love to hear from you, even if it's just "this was acceptable," lol. Hopefully another chapter up soon! And if you've made it down this far a big ol' COVID-free hug from me. :D


	4. Quiet Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! So this isn't exactly where I wanted it to be and I know it's pretty short but *shrug* school is hard guys. Tomorrow is my last midterm (they lasted 3 weeks? Because no professor wanted to use the same schedule??) and I thought I'd post this as a lil reward to myself. Your feedback has been incredible, and guess what? This has officially passed my XMFC fic in terms of stats! WOOT WOOT! Go you guys!
> 
> Brief Warning--use of the word "retard." Brief but still warning-worthy.

Emily needed coffee. Desperately.

This case was stressful and demanded their full attention—they were called in for four homicides within the week, which was an extreme escalation. What wasn’t atypical was the police response. They had been called to Senoia, Georgia. It had a population of less than 5,000 and an equally small police force to match. They got the whole spiel that “things like this never happen here,” and “everyone knows everyone.” The police chief had been extremely clear that he didn’t enjoy having his toes stepped on by the Big Bad FBI. Once the chief had made his opinion abundantly clear, the rest of the force was quick to follow. The air was brimming with hostility.

JJ had spent all morning dodging calls from nosy neighbors, the three newspapers in the town, and concerned citizens. Emily felt useless watching her friend being chewed out and interrogated, so settled with bringing her coffee and diverting what she could before it got to JJ. Similar to the thick, humid air, this case was moving a little too slowly, and Emily was getting restless.

Cringing at the first sip of the burnt liquid, Emily made her way to the room Reid had been occupying. He had set up quite an impressive bulletin board. It was color-coded with different potential suspects, evidence, backgrounds, everything. The dichotomy the man contained was astounding—during prep, he was meticulous and organized. But when it came to spur-of-the-moment realizations, Reid’s writing became sprawled and hectic, little more than random chicken scratch and books scattered everywhere. He jumped from clue to clue like a child jumping on furniture.

When she opened the door, Emily had expected Reid to be running around the room, pinning up pictures and drawing out triangulations on the color-coded map.

Instead, Reid was sitting in a chair, his shoulders hunched as he straightened out a row of colored sharpies. Despite being in a perfect row, Reid kept fidgeting with them. He didn’t even acknowledge her presence, his expression clearly distracted as his hair fell into his face.

“Any news?” Emily asked, plopping down. At this point she had expected a big breakthrough from him, for him to overwhelm her with a new realization like an excited puppy, eager to show his team what he had found while they had been away.

“No, we’re just waiting for Morgan and Hotch to return from the Callum’s,” Reid said, slightly startled as he glanced up. “So now we just…wait.”

Prentiss nodded, falling into the silence as she watched Reid continue to fidget with his markers. It was hard to tell what was running through his head. No one liked waiting, but it was unavoidable at this point. They had all become used to that. This wasn’t impatience. Something was clearly eating away at Reid.

“Everything alright?” She prompted. She expected him to shrug it off. She knew he was much closer to JJ, but figured he would still appreciate the gesture. Her and Reid’s relationship had improved the past few months—it appeared Reid had worked through whatever had made him uncharacteristically turn on Emily. The past few months she realized he was not just the small, geeky nerd trapped in the shed. He was not the token defenseless brains of the team, but an armory of information and neurons that moved too fast for anyone on the ground to follow. He seemed to contain multitudes, and Emily had enjoyed gently peeling away the layers the more time they spent together. Despite Reid loving puzzles and obscure literature, she wouldn’t tell him that she had already found her new puzzle—him.

“Do I embarrass you guys?” Reid blurted out. His tone held an uncertainty that she wasn’t expecting. Emily tilted her head quizzically.

“Of course not. What brought this on?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Reid responded. “Is it true?”

“Absolutely not. Did someone give you that impression?”

“No,” Reid said immediately. “I was being idiotic, it doesn’t matter.” He finished fiddling with his markers, and subtly moved so that he was sitting on his hands, eyes fixed on the table like he was waiting for one of them to move simply so he could fix them again.

“If it’s bothering you, it’s not silly,” Emily reiterated. “And I don’t want to hear the smartest man I’ve ever met call himself idiotic.”

Reid gave a half-hearted smile, before it vanished. He was slightly curled in on himself, as if trying to take up as little space as possible. Emily watched him, waiting for him to divuldge whatever was clearly on his mind. Maybe he needed time to formulate his thoughts. His exterior was calm and still, but Emily could see the cogs churning furiously under that unruly hair.

“One of…” Reid took a deep breath and restarted, and when he did, his words came out in a rapid flurry, like he was divulging a secret. “I overheard one of the officers say something,” Reid admitted.

“What did he say?” Emily asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” Reid responded quickly.

Emily sat up a little straighter. “It most certainly does. If I wasn’t so afraid of Hotch kicking me off the team so shortly after I’ve joined, I’d take on half this force. They’ve been giving JJ lip all day, disregarding Morgan, and have practically hung up a sign saying they don’t want us here. Come on, Reid. I'm bored, and frankly, pissed. Give me a reason to start a fight, I’m begging you.”

Emily smiled, but it slowly fell as Reid remained quiet. The playful tone had been sucked from the air. “Reid?”

Reid barely inhaled before he recited something quietly under his breath. His tone was monotone.

“Did you see the kid? Hands flapping everywhere like a retard. This is a debrief, not a circus. I’ve never seen anyone that turned on by murder; he was even smiling. I think he’s the one we should be interviewing. Needs to be medicated or something. I thought the FBI was better than that.”

Emily gaped in disbelief.

Reid’s gaze remained downward, his teeth worrying the corner of his lip.

“Which officer said that?” She asked, standing up angrily. “I can have Hotch take him off the case immediately, and that’s only if I don’t get to him first. Which one?”

“I told you, it doesn’t matter,” Reid said, brushing off her anger.

“That’s not—”

“Emily, please,” Reid pleaded. His eyes were large, and she realized she needed to comfort him _before_ losing her cool. She sat back down slowly as he continued. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t typically care what other people think of me. I’ve been dealing with that my whole life. But if it’s going to affect the way local police view our entire team, maybe it would be better if I removed myself for the duration of the case.”

“Absolutely not,” Prentiss replied fervently. “We need you on this case. When someone attacks one of us, they attack all of us. You have never embarrassed this team. And I’ll be damned if someone gets away with it, let alone makes you believe it.”

To be honest, she hadn't even noticed anything off during the debrief. She had been too focused on the profile to gauge the reaction of the officers. Reid had always been very expressive when talking--his hands often told more than his words did. While he was shockingly clumbsy, like a giraffe that hadn't quite grown into its long legs yet, Reid's body language told an entirely different story when he was describing details to the others. He moved elegantly, his hands painting a fresco among gory crime scene photos. Emily had noticed certain repetitive movements, but she never thought twice about them. 

And she had certainly never taken Reid's enthusiasm about certain details or discoveries as disconcerting. She knew he got caught up in the moment, invigorated by the seemingly random details that he was able to rearrange and decode. It was a puzzle to him. Match solving a puzzle with saving lives, and Emily felt that he had every right to be excited. 

She had noticed that sometimes when he got a little too caught up in the details and background, Hotch was able to bring him back. The first few times she had felt shocked at Hotch's abruptness, but it never seemed to bother Reid. He would simply take a deep breath before reorienting himself. 

She had only seen one time where Reid had been dejected, a few weeks ago. Reid had gone on a tangent about flower significance, hands flying wildly. Hotch had redirected him, interupting him mind-sentence. But when they had left the room, she heard Hotch quietly reassure him. "I'll drive you home tonight, and you can finish telling me about the significance of foxglove. Okay?"

Emily returned her gaze to Reid. "Last time I checked, you were the only one in the room with six PhDs. That officer's opinion means nothing." 

Reid hesitated. Despite the tension thrumming through his limbs, his voice remained calm. “I’ve always had bullies. They pick on the flaws of others because they’re insecure about themselves; it’s basic psychology. However, they hold leverage if they’re right. And they were—my actions were unprofessional. I appreciate the support, but I don’t want to cause a scene. I just want to know if my presence means they don’t take us seriously. You guys should't have to deal with them potentially not cooperating because of something I did.” Emily noticed Reid’s fingers flexing underneath his thighs, probably losing feeling. She gently reached down to pull his arms away, but Reid resisted, sitting on his hands more firmly.

“Hey,” she murmured, “you don’t need to do that around me.”

“It’s this or I start ‘flapping my hands like a retard,’” Reid said flatly.

“No,” Emily responded confidently. “It’s you getting back to what you do best and catching this guy.”

After a few seconds of silence, Reid slowly removed his hands from underneath his legs, and began flexing his fingers to return the bloodflow that had been cut off. But after a few moments, his arms came to rest at his sides, fists clenched yet motionless.

“Are you angry?” Prentiss asked. “It’s okay if you are; I know I am furious.”

“What? No,” Reid responded quizzically. “Why would you think that?”

Emily’s eyes flew to his clenched fists, confused.

“Quiet hands,” Reid said, but it sounded like he was speaking more to himself.

“I think I know what you’re referring to, but I’m no genius,” Emily said. She left the air open for him to continue.

Realizing what she was waiting for, Reid hesitated for a moment before responding. “It’s…Sometimes I can push it back. I can mask, at least for a little while, until I have the chance to be alone. I had to in school.”

“Why?” Emily asked. The truth was, she knew why. But she wanted to hear him say it, if only to contradict him.

“Because I had to,” Reid responded as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

“Nope,” Emily countered. Reid looked at her incredulously.

“What do you mean, ‘nope?’”

“I mean nope,” Emily repeated. “You didn’t have to. So why did you do it?”

“I used to get in trouble with teachers. I didn't know it was abnormal behavior; I always thought it was as natural as blinking. Some genius I am. It made other people uncomfortable if I didn’t mask it, so I did,” Reid responded. "People were more likely to talk to me."

“So you masked to please others,” Emily said, trying not to show how sad the image of a small Reid trying to sit still made her. “And as usual, Doctor Reid, you put their comfort over your own.”

“Emily, I know I’m not always great at understanding ulterior motives, but if you are trying to make me feel better, you aren’t doing a very good job.”

Emily snorted. “Stick with me on this one. You learned to mask because you were taught to. But no one on this team expects you to mask, and to be frank, it’s a ridiculous term. It implies you are covering something natural, and in doing so, hiding a part of yourself.”

“That’s ironic coming from you,” Reid spluttered before he could stop himself.

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Emily asked, but there was no malice behind her words.

“You claim that this job was so easy because you’re good at compartmentalization. The truth is, doing that takes a lot more energy than just accepting things as they are. Actively separating those aspects of your life is draining.”

“Ding, ding, ding,” Emily sang, smiling slightly. “And the award for giving advice without accepting his own goes to our genius.” Spencer’s face screwed up slightly, as if he had been caught. “Reid, if you are using energy to mask, it’s less energy to you have to focus on the case. I’m not saying solving cases falls solely on your shoulders. But if you are constantly restraining yourself until you get back home, I think you would be doing everyone a disservice at the expense of appearing how you think others want you to. No one on this team cares. You do this job better than anyone, methods be damned. I guarantee Hotch would smite anyone on a Local PD force that had a problem with ow you act when you are solving their cases for them."

“I guess,” Reid conceded. “I’m just…that’s what I do on cases. I can usually hold it back until I get back home, it's just a little harder on longer cases. I was tired and slipped.”

Emily’s eyebrows flew up. “Are you saying you do this on every case? How long have you been masking from the team?”

“I’ve had lapses,” Reid affirmed sadly, voice shameful. “I usually don't have to when I'm setting up a profile, but a debrief is different. Everyone is watching.”

“So what?” Emily provoked. This wasn’t something he should have to feel ashamed of. 

Reid chewed his lip. “I know he didn’t mean it, but sometimes Gideon…” His voice died out.

Emily’s face fell. “Reid—"

“It wasn’t malicious,” Reid reassured quickly. “But he heard murmurings from the day he brought me on. He wanted the police to take us seriously to get the job done faster. That's why he always insisted on introducing me as Doctor Reid rather than just agent. It wasn't always enough to establish my credibility. And so sometimes he would remind me to do what I could to…but those days he always drove me home and let me stim in the car. It didn’t bother him personally; he just knew that I was so young no one would take me seriously in the first place, let alone if I was acting strangely.”

Emily let out a sigh. She hadn’t known Gideon as long as the rest of the team. But she knew his relationship with Reid was one an outsider would probably never understand. Gideon’s recent absence had been filled in by Hotch, who Emily personally thought was doing a much better job. Yet despite his abrupt retirement, it was clear Reid still held a great deal of respect for Gideon.

“I can’t speak for him,” Emily said slowly, “but I think Gideon never meant to make you feel like you had to hide. He wanted the job done as quickly as possible to prevent another victim. You of all people should know that. He was infuriatingly practical. I don’t think he handled it correctly, but I also don’t think he meant to make you feel like what you were doing was wrong. Besides, it’s not like Gideon was exactly the prime example of professionalism.”

“I know,” Reid said. “I think…I think it was difficult for him to understand. He tried to refocus me. But sometimes it made it worse.” Emily glanced at his hands, which were beginning to tap against his leg. 

“I know. And while I know it’s still raw, Gideon isn’t here anymore. You should do whatever it is you need to do to focus, without having to worry. I understand if you’re self-conscious about it,” Emily said, standing up. “So I’m gonna close these blinds for a second. But it isn’t because you should be embarrassed. Would it make you feel more comfortable?”

“Yeah, thanks,” Reid said faintly. After a few moments, he began to push himself up from his chair, making his way back to his pristine bulletin board. His eyes flickered between the suspect pictures and locations. He began muttering to himself, making strange sharpie marks on the board connecting things that make no sense to Emily. It didn’t matter; she was content watching him work his magic. She smiled reassuringly as he turned around to make sure the window blinds were really closed. After a moment, one of the hands at his side began to resume its erratic movements, and he rocked back and forth on his heels. After a few minutes, he turned around, face lit up.

“Hold on, I thin—"

So when Reid solved the case mid-sentence during the second debrief, his hands flapping excitedly as the officers smirked, Emily took great pleasure in watching the officers’ faces fall when Reid explained that the first suspect the force had dismissed so easily was the unsub.

Emily wasn’t embarrassed to admit that sometimes she liked to play aggressively. But this wasn’t her place. She would remain quiet for this one. She could have pulled rank easily, but thought someone else would enjoy the satisfaction more, and land their point more effectively. Besides, her gently pulling Hotch aside out of earshot before the second debrief wasn't...aggressive. It was simply proactive. 

Hotch glanced at her at the end of the debrief and she nodded. As officers filed out of the room, she tried not to feel too smug as Hotch subtly cornered an officer, grasping his shoulder a little too forcefully. “How about we take a walk?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I adore Prentiss (despite my struggle writing her.) Enough said. I have very mixed feelings on Gideon, but I think this assesment is pretty fair. Also I can promise next up is a LOOOONG update that I'm actually pretty proud of (I think you all will really enjoy the prompt.) Adding the final touches so stay tuned!! 
> 
> Also I really dislike that A03 doesn't have a chat section so if you wanna hmu randomly my main tumblr is CoolioCoulson! :D


	5. Haircuts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO THERE! So not that I'm ever super confident about my writing, but you know when you write a chapter you are super proud of and had a great time with? It's this one. It's based on an experience with a family member who refused to get haircuts as a child bc of the buzzer (his kindergarten photo has half of his bangs shaved, lol.) DM me if you want to hear that story. But yeah, I'm kind of proud of this one and can barely wait to share it with you. Enjoy!

David Rossi looked up the files strewn across the table. Reid was rushing through them—it barely took him a minute to get through each one. It was like watching a tree grow in sped up time; one stack was diminishing while another grew rapidly. He tried not to feel self-conscious as his stack barely changed. No one could even begin to compete with the kid.

Rossi chuckled a little when Reid moved his bangs out his face for the third time that minute. “Hair starting to bother you?”

Reid looked up. “Uh, yeah. Garcia threatened to braid it.”

“I have no doubt,” Rossi humored. The team now was a lot different than it was in his day, and Garcia took up a large and sparkly portion of that difference. He had been a little taken aback when he first met the technical analyst— she was all bright colors, weird phrases, and everything he hadn’t expected for someone that was locked in a computer lair all day. But it hadn’t taken very long until he had grown fond of her. She certainly brought some sunshine into the office. And more importantly, she lived up to Hotch’s praise; she really got the job done. She did things Rossi couldn’t even begin to understand, but she did it well and with a smile. So the fact that the protective mother hen wanted to braid Reid’s hair was honestly no surprise at all.

“It’s too long,” Reid said, running a hand through his untamable locks angrily.

“I thought you liked it,” Rossi said. “It definitely fits the tussled, young genius look.”

Reid huffed, and returned his attention to the files in front of him. He continued speeding through them, but Rossi could sense his irritation as he adjusted himself in his chair every few seconds, one hand absentmindedly twirling a strand of hair at the base of his neck.

“Why don’t you get it cut?” Rossi asked, breaking the silence between the soft whips of flipping file covers. “I have a great barber. I bet he could fit you in once we get back. He owes me too many favors to argue.”

“Uh, thanks, but I’m alright,” Reid said offhandedly, grabbing a new stack. His cheeks were beginning to heat up, and if Rossi didn’t know any better, he’d guess the kid was embarrassed.

“Having an easy solution to a problem and not taking it doesn’t seem like your style,” Rossi said casually, finishing a file and picking up a new one. Reid was clearly uncomfortable with something, but Rossi knew making a big deal about it would only make it worse. He had to be subtle—they weren’t having a humiliating conversation, they were just two men reading files.

“It’s embarrassing,” Reid murmured, but didn’t make eye contact.

 _Yeah, no shit._ Rossi thought. _Garcia would love to snap a picture of how red his face is right now. Poor kid._

“You don’t like the barber?” Rossi asked. _Casual, be casual._ “I always did. All the ex-wives got sick of me asking them to play with my hair. I kinda pegged you as the same.”

That got a small smile from Reid. “Sure, that feels nice.”

“Then what part bothers you?” Rossi asked. “Is it having a stranger do it?”

Reid mumbled something, and Rossi raised an eyebrow, making it clear he was waiting for Reid to speak up.

“It’s the buzzing,” Reid conceded quietly, closing the file he had been working on. “The buzzers so close to my ears and neck. The sensation and sound make me feel claustrophobic. I can’t explain it.”

Rossi nodded slowly. He had heard of people refusing to visit the dentist for similar reasons but had never heard a complaint about a haircut. Rossi thoroughly enjoyed visiting his barber. But Rossi had seen the way Reid was around certain textures and smells; one thing that seemed innocuous to others could completely uproot the young agent from his train of thought, immediately shrinking his comfort zone. 

“Once we finish this case, why don’t you come over to my place?” Rossi suggested. “I’ll make you some pasta worth raving about, and maybe we’ll see if we can do something about that hair.”

“Rossi, don’t take this the wrong way, but it doesn’t matter if I know you. It won’t help,” Reid insisted, words careful and certain.

“Kid, for as smart as you are, you’ve got a thick skull,” Rossi smirked. “If you didn’t know anything else about me, I’d hope you’d know that I’m a man with taste. I don’t use electric buzzers. Just scissors, a comb, and a straight razor, the way God intended.”

Reid looked up curiously, grabbing a few files from Rossi’s stack. It almost felt as if he had accepted Rossi’s peace offering. “Since when do you know how to give haircuts?”

“Gideon and I were on the road alone for a long time,” Rossi chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe it, but once his hair got long enough, it was the most untamable, curly mop you had ever seen. He looked like a poodle,” Rossi said, motioning with his hands above his head. “It wasn’t until he broke his motel comb trying to fix it that he let me near it. All it took was a broken comb and a few too many glasses of scotch before he succumbed. The first few times were rough, but I got the hang of it pretty quickly.”

“And did Gideon return the favor?” Reid asked, tickled at the preposterous thought of his previous mentor getting a haircut from Rossi.

“Oh, he offered,” Rossi replied carefully, smiling. “But there was no way in hell I was letting him touch my hair. Only Salvatore, and a few ex-wives, were ever given that pleasure.”

Reid looked like he was weighing the pros and cons of both options, and Rossi tried not to seem too eager. In reality, he lost nothing if Reid refused. But it was clear he was unhappy with his current situation, and Rossi knew he wasn’t one to ask for help easily.

“Okay,” Reid agreed slowly, nodding his head only to get irritated when a strand of hair fell back into his face. “I’d like to try. Plus I can’t turn down good pasta.”

Rossi smiled, trying to suppress his surprise. He was slightly stunned at the answer, but sincerely pleased. “I’ll get the water boiling the second this case is over. Now, can’t you speed this up a little?” he joked. “I’d say you’re making me look bad, but there are people relying on that genius speed. I’ll swallow my pride for now.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rossi tried not to feel too full of himself as he watched Reid thoroughly devour his portion of carbonara. Mothers tended to overexaggerate, but Diana was right—Spencer really was too skinny.

“This is delicious, thank you,” Spencer said enthusiastically. “I don’t understand why the rest of the team insists on eating sushi with chopsticks when there is perfectly good food you can actually get into your mouth with a fork.”

“Grazie! Someone finally gets it,” Rossi cheered, polishing off his glass of wine. “And it’s no trouble. It’s always better to cook for family.”

Reid smiled as he ducked his head, clearly preoccupied with something else. His leg was bouncing slightly under the table. Under Rossi’s gaze, he sprung up from his seat, placing his dish in the sink. “I’ll just…”

“No, no, you aren’t cleaning up,” Rossi insisted, standing up. “Just leave it there. I’m going to go grab a few towels and my clipper kit. Sadly I don’t have a cape, so you might want to take your vest off.”

Reid nodded, biting the corner of his lip. Rossi walked into his bathroom, grabbing a small kit that had scissors, a comb, and a few straight razors. Contrary to what Rossi had said, he did own a simple electric razor, just for cleaning up the back. He wouldn’t use it though. While Reid had been appreciative of dinner, it was clear he was uncomfortable. His anxiety was radiating off of his body in waves, restless energy that screamed of unease. Rossi had hoped that he could relieve some of that anxiety, and maybe give a half-decent haircut.

When he walked back out into the kitchen, Reid was standing in the center, folding his vest and placing it onto the counter. He had kept his dress shirt on. Rossi would have removed it, but Reid was already uncomfortable, and if it offered him some sort of comfort it really wasn’t a big deal. Reid looked up at Rossi.

“So, where do you want me to…”

Rossi answered his question by pulling one of the lower-seated dining chairs into the center of the room. The hardwood would make the hair easy to sweep up, as opposed to the tile in his bathroom. Reid eyed the chair, Rossi, and then hesitantly sat down. Rossi placed a loose towel around his neck, trying to prevent hair from falling down his shirt. He absentmindedly set up his tools on the bar, humming to the music crooning in the background. He felt relaxed, honored, and slightly eager to spend time with Spencer outside of work. The kid didn’t take enough time for himself, and to be quite honest, Dave was tired of only seeing his teammates in an office or on a jet. Tragedy shouldn’t be the only reason the team got to meet up.

When Dave turned back around, he instantly took stock of the other agent, who was gripping the armrests of the wooden chair a little too lightly, his posture a little too straight.

Rossi saw a short flash of old crime scene photos, ones he hadn’t been there for but was equally haunted by. A wooden chair in a dark shed, straps on the armrests. He and Reid had never explicitly talked about that case; Rossi hadn’t been there for it, so it didn’t seem necessary. Everything he had heard had been in confidence through Aaron during a late-night, a case that had hit a little too close to home, and a tad too much scotch.

Mix that traumatic experience with the fact that Spencer probably already had negative associations engrained in his brain from previous haircuts, and Rossi could understand why he was uncomfortable.

“You know, I just realized your Gumby-esque frame means that even in a chair, your height is impressive,” Rossi lied casually. “I want to try something else.”

Spencer looked up at him, hesitantly getting up from the chair. Dave watched as Reid’s chest all but heaved as he gasped in relief. “Uh, so what…”

“Come here,” Rossi beckoned, leading him into the living room. He sat down on his large leather couch, posture open. Reid stood frozen.

“Come on, kid,” Rossi said, tossing a towel and throw pillow on the ground.

“That’s a terrible idea,” Reid protested, his eyes widening as he understood Rossi’s unspoken intention. “You’ll get hair all over your carpet!”

“Which is why some genius invented the vacuum cleaner,” Rossi replied.

“Cecil Booth,” Reid instantly supplied under his breath. “But the first handheld was created by Walter Griffiths. Before that, they were pulled by horses and people had to stretch the hoses into their homes.”

“Well, a toast to Mr. Booth and Mr. Griffiths,” Rossi said. He waited as Spencer cautiously walked over to the couch, sitting down on the floor with his back to Rossi. Honestly, Rossi knew his back and shoulders would be protesting in the morning, but it did give him a decent angle of the tall agent’s head.

“You should have called Garcia. Now it feels like you’re really gonna braid my hair,” Reid joked, voice shaky.

“And what gives you that impression?” Rossi asked, smiling at Reid’s mismatched socks as he sat crisscrossed. God, the kid was still so young.

“This feels like something in one of those girl movies Garcia and JJ are always trying to get me to watch,” Reid said, his voice still slightly shaky with apprehension.

“Ah, the ever-feared ‘chick-flick’,” Rossi retorted. “I’ve sat my way through plenty. Though I did like ‘Pretty Woman.’”

Reid laughed, which put Rossi slightly more at ease. He mumbled something under his breath as Rossi put a towel back on his shoulders.

“What’s that?” Rossi asked.

“Big mistake. Big. Huge,” Reid spoke up, monotone and fast.

Rossi almost gawked. “You should say that at the round table; Garcia would probably implode on the spot. But if you’re referring to this, I don’t think it’s going to be a mistake. So, what exactly are we doing?”

“I…I don’t know,” Reid uttered. Dave raised an eyebrow.

“That’s a first,” Rossi admitted. “You seriously have nothing for me?”

“I don’t know,” Reid echoed. “I don’t usually care, I kinda just tell them to make it shorter and try to sit still through the whole thing. I guess I’m relying on your judgment.”

“Well, I’ll do my best,” Rossi supplied. “No buzz cut. Something young and a little more out of your face. And you want it off your neck?”

“Please,” Reid said, just short of pleading.

“Okay kid. If you want me to stop or anything gets uncomfortable just speak up.”

Reid nodded, perking his neck up a little and sitting still. Rossi took note of the clenched fists in the carpet below him.

“Okay, comb first,” Dave said, appearing to be talking out loud to himself. Reid probably knew what he was doing, but the Italian felt a little more at ease when Spencer’s shoulders dropped slightly. _Okay, give him warnings._

They sat in silence for a while as Rossi combed through Reid’s hair, shocked at how much of there really was.

“Scissors,” Rossi announced, and was happy when Reid’s shoulders didn’t spike up. He ran the comb through the hair, using it to guide his scissors as he slowly cut off small sections. He made sure to keep the thick plastic in between the scissors and Reid’s head, almost like a shield.

The two remained silent, listening to Rossi’s music and the soft shearing that gently filled the air.

Rossi couldn’t tell if Reid was quiet because he was nervous, or relaxed from a heavy meal. It really could have been either.

The familiar chords of ‘My Way’ started, and Rossi smiled. He always had a soft spot for the song. He decided it was a good moment to probe the silence.

“So, got any fun facts about Sinatra?” Rossi asked nonchalantly.

Reid’s fingers nearly jumped from where they had been relaxed in the carpet in an excited twitch. “You’re asking me? I think I can give you a lot more than you’re actually bargaining for.”

“Oh, don’t I know it,” Rossi reassured. “Frankie’s always been a favorite. But I don’t really know much about him besides his style and music. And his parents were Italian immigrants.”

“The fact that he ever made music is impressive,” Reid said, voice becoming more confident. This—facts, especially facts that others would listen to--was his comfort zone. “He was much larger than the typical newborn, and had to be delivered with forceps. It gave him a multitude of scarring around his neck and ear. Combine that with his later mastoid surgery, and you can see why he’s always pictured on his right side. His left side was heavily scarred, and it embarrassed him.”

“Huh. Explains the over-machismo,” Rossi mused, hesitating slightly as his scissors got closer to Reid’s ear, and the man’s shoulders instinctively rose just slightly. He gently pressed the comb just to the side of the ear, as if to forecast to the younger agent where he would be cutting next, and to remind him there was a safe barrier.

“It’s…” Reid started, letting out an exhale as Rossi gently snipped the first piece of hair near his ear. “Did you know that some bars have banned this song?”

“And I’m assuming there’s a fun story behind that?” Rossi asked. There clearly was.

“Fun as far as our work goes,” Reid continued. “In 2007 a Filipino karaoke singer was shot by a security guard for singing the song. The guard claimed it was because he was so off-key. Since then, it’s been estimated the ‘My Way’ phenomenon has happened 6 more times. Now it is banned in the Philippines.”

"That’s a shame,” Rossi said. “I’ve always liked the song. It’s a good reminder to be unapologetic in the face of critics that are ten paces behind you.”

Reid hummed in agreement as Rossi worked around his ears. “Wait,” Spencer asked, “You haven’t looked at the files?”

“What files?” Rossi asked curiously, slightly nudging Reid’s head to the right.

“Sinatra’s FBI files!” Reid exclaimed, trying his hardest to keep his head still. His fingers had left their position in the carpet, moving excitedly in front of him, just outside of Rossi’s view. “He supposedly paid a doctor to declare him unfit for military service, even though it turned out to be a legitimately blown eardrum. But the FBI watched him for decades in an attempt to find his mafia ties. Rumor has it that he introduced Giancana to Kennedy’s campaign.”

“Giancana…oh, that mob boss in Chicago!” Rossi remembered. “He was a big deal when I was younger. He and the Fischetti brothers. I knew there were rumors, but I thought most of those files were made public.”

“Yeah, in 1998,” Reid interjected excitedly. “I guess I figured you had looked for any that maybe…weren’t made public.”

“I have not,” Rossi conceded. “Might be a fun project if we finish our next case early. I bet Penelope could have them up in an instant. But as far as I’m concerned, his most important role was with the Rat Pack.”

“They didn’t actually like being called that,” Reid objected. “They wanted to be called ‘Summit.’”

“At some point,” Rossi muttered fondly, “I’m gonna have you go through all my vinyl records and leave little notes on each cover about things I should know. I thought I knew these men, but you are making it very clear I do not.” He placed his scissors on the cushion next to him, taking stock of the back of Reid’s head. It wasn’t too bad—he had taken off a considerable length. It would have been much smoother if he had the opportunity to use a buzzer, but it would probably do. He would clean it up in a minute. He stretched his shoulder, feeling the junction between his neck and rotator cuff resist slightly.

_Damn, I’m getting old._

He grabbed the scissors and comb and stood up, his joints protesting weakly. He sat on the adjacent coffee table so that he could face Reid, having access to the front mop of hair.

“I’m gonna start slow because we can always take off more, but you can’t put it back on,” Rossi said, slowly clipping parts of Reid’s bangs as the younger agent shut his eyes.

“I would, you know,” Reid spoke quickly. “Leave you notes. On the vinyl covers. If you were serious, that is.” The last sentence was punctured with doubt as if he couldn’t tell if Dave was serious, or just poking fun at his seemingly infinite store of knowledge.

“Damn serious,” Rossi reassured. His eyes dropped to Reid’s hands, where one wiry finger was picking at another. “You’re doing well, you know.”

Reid gave the briefest of nods, not wanting to jostle his head too much. Other than that, he did nothing to acknowledge the praise. His eyes were still closed—Dave didn’t know if that was from anxiety, or not wanting to get hair in his face. They had moved away from his neck for the moment, which should have calmed him down slightly.

Rossi had done a decent job of keeping his hand and comb between Reid’s face and his scissors, preventing the majority of hair from falling onto him. However, one strand of the mock bangs Rossi hadn’t gotten to yet fell into Reid’s face. Rossi internally thanked that his reflexes were still quick, because the half a second it took for him to pull the scissors away from the vicinity of Reid’s head was all he had before the younger agent quickly let out a whine. Reid instantly (and somewhat violently) rubbed his hands over his face harshly in a repetitive motion. After a few seconds, Spencer let his hands fall, his eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, that was so…”

“Not a problem,” Rossi quickly interjected before Reid got too flustered. Things had been going well thus far, and he didn’t want to cause the younger agent to feel embarrassed. He wanted this to be a good experience, to act as one positive association that might combat what he suspected to be dozens of negative ones.

Reid dropped his hands and closed his eyes again. His breathing was still hurried and restrained. When he seemed calm enough, Rossi resumed slowly snipping away tiny sections of his bangs, thinking it would be better to leave most of the hair up top.

“Do you remember our first meeting?” Rossi asked. He realized a second later that it was honestly a stupid question. But he knew talking was a great way to regulate breathing and heart rate. And if there was one thing Reid was good at (amongst hundreds of others), it was talking.

“Of course,” Reid murmured, his voice quizzical.

“I remember you quoting more lines from my books than I even remember writing,” Rossi recollected. “I thought you were trying to show off, to impress me. It didn’t take very long for me to see that wasn’t your motive at all. It never occurred to me that someone would read them just for the sake of reading them--not to gain fame, not as a secret, fetishized look into what we do, but just for pure interest.”

He left the thought there—no explicit praise, but a much subtler one. Just a memory. It still made Spencer smile slightly.

“I couldn’t believe I was actually meeting you,” Reid said quietly. His eyes were still shut, but gently. “I remember one of my first thoughts I had of you.”

Rossi slightly lowered the scissors. “Really now?”

“Yeah,” Reid confirmed. “I mean, besides my crude profile with Emily and Morgan. It was when you were writing in that little book during your first case with the team.

“What about it?” Rossi asked, finishing up the front of Reid’s hair. It was still slightly longer in the front, in a way that matched his youth without being obstructing. “That was typical for cops back in my day—after all, we can’t all have eidetic memories. Some of us ‘boomers’ have to write that shit down.”

“No, no,” Reid said, chuckling slightly. The noise made Rossi happy. “It reminded me of Gideon and his little notebook. The way he kept score. But your book was filled with details to solve the cases, rather than holding onto remnants of the past. I liked that. It was a sort of juxtaposition to Gideon.”

“Ah, yes,” Rossi replied. “But with a for-hire genius, I hardly have a need anymore.” He got back up, satisfied with his short work in the front to move back to his position on the couch, facing the back of Reid’s head.

He frowned slightly once he had the chance to reassess the back. He had thought it looked okay, but on a second glance, it still was a bit shoddy.

Dave stretched out his shoulder again. Apparently, it didn’t escape Reid’s notice, despite the younger agent facing the opposite direction.

“That position can’t be very comfortable,” Reid said, guilt slipping into his voice.

“Hey,” Rossi protested. “I’m not that old yet, just a little tired from this week.”

“I’m sorry you had to—”

“You wanna rephrase that?” Rossi interrupted.

“What?” Reid asked, half turning around. Rossi couldn’t help but smile slightly. His hair really did look a little better. Much younger, and not as….haunted.

_If pasta could fix the bags under his eyes, I’d cook until my arms fell off._

Rossi sighed. “You gotta stop apologizing, especially when I offered to do this. I don’t mind one bit. Besides, you are a lot better than Gideon was—always jumping up halfway through to write something down. He’s lucky I’m so fast, or I would have taken his ear off, and soon enough he would only want to be photographed from the right side.”

But this time Spencer didn’t chuckle. His face had taken on an expression Dave knew well at this point—contemplation. It was the mere seconds of hesitation that came before Reid spoke on cases, when he was broaching a sensitive subject and was regulating his speech.

“I think…” Reid started, looking down at his hands and slightly turning back around, “I think I want to try the buzzer.”

Rossi’s eyebrows flew up, and he sat back slightly. “Hey kid, you don’t need to do that. If I could make it through Vietnam, I can take the time to straighten out the back. My arms will survive.”

“Well, I don’t want you to be sore,” Reid admitted, “but I think I should try. This is the farthest I’ve made it through a haircut, and at some point I have to get over buzzers.”

“You don’t have to,” Rossi protested gently. “Although they’re on the decline, plenty of barbershops still give haircuts this way. And this isn’t something you have to ‘get over’ because it’s not a problem.”

“But I want to try.”

Rossi looked at the younger agent, who despite looking apprehensive, seemed determined.

“Okay,” Rossi agreed leisurely, getting up and heading back to his bathroom. He took a deep breath, pulling the electric buzzer from his cabinet. He had to stay calm. If Reid picked up on his hesitancy, it would only multiply. He had to turn on the Italian swagger than exuded confidence.

He wasn’t worried about messing up Spencer’s hair. He was worried about creating further proof that haircuts were unpleasant, forced, clinical. He was worried he would ruin the progress they had made that night, not as a shot to his own ego, but because Spencer needed to accept that family was to be trusted—accepting flaws and not pushing limits.

When reentered the living room, Reid’s hands were fiddling with a tassel on the carpet, and his legs pressed up against his chest, rocking ever so slightly. His normally lanky form had been reduced to a small ball of sharp angles.

Rossi walked over to his TV stand and opened the drawer. He pulled out a small metallic square, smiling. The corners were just beginning to rust, but he didn’t think it would deter Reid. He handed it to the young man, smiling.

“A fifteen puzzle,” Reid said, accepting the small square. It had small metallic squares that clinked as they slid, numbers on each alternating with red and white backgrounds. “I actually used to have one of these.”

“I kept it in my military bag,” Rossi said. “Simple, yet fun.” He sat back down. He looked up to where he could see Reid’s reflection on the TV. His eyes were pinched shut, despite his fingers fiddling with the puzzle, not even needing to look to sort the numbers.

“You sure about this?” Rossi asked again.

“Very,” Reid said, but his voice was anything but certain.

“What uh…what exactly bothers you about using a buzzer? You said something about the sound near your ears. But what about your neck?”

“The sound is part of it,” Reid admitted. “It’s the sensation as well. I don’t know. I feel stupid explaining it.”

“Hey, none of that,” Rossi admonished lightly. Damn, the kid needed a confidence boost. “I want to know.”

“The feeling is like buzzing insects jumping on my skin, leaving before they’ve even fully landed. It’s…somehow too much and not enough. I can kind of feel it, but it’s too little vibration for me to confirm it’s really there, but the sound is too loud to deny. It’s almost…it needs to fully vibrate or not at all. The sensation is so confusing and makes me feel claustrophobic yet somehow exposed.”

Rossi nodded, even though he was aware Reid wouldn’t be able to see it. It was very much like Reid to perceive things as one extreme or the other.

“So if I’m understanding you correctly, it would almost be better if the pressure were more intense?”

Reid nodded microscopically.

“I wanna try something that I think will help. What will do you if it’s too much since I might not be able to hear you?”

“I don’t know,” Reid said, trying to hide his apprehension. “I’ve never had anyone ask that before. But I really want to try before I change my mind.”

“Okay,” Rossi said slowly. “If it’s too much, can you put your hand up?”

Reid nodded, putting his head down slightly to give Rossi better access. Goosebumps had already formed on his neck.

Rossi flipped on the buzzer, letting Reid adjust to the noise. Spencer’s shoulders shot up towards his ears.

“I’ve got ya, kid,” Rossi muttered. Spencer simply nodded, and then remained still, despite his hands forming a flurry with the puzzle. Dave placed his hand firmly on Reid’s neck, covering the junction between his shoulder and ear. Reid’s body tightened momentarily, before relaxing when he realized there was no threat. It wasn’t a tight grasp, but hopefully enough pressure to distract him. He brought the razor near his hand, hoping the pressure would negate the slight buzzing occurring just to the side of it. After the first and second stripe, Reid’s shoulders fell a little, and Rossi could see his heavy exhale. As he moved from the side to the middle, his hand moved with it, providing a grounding pressure. Reid’s hands were still fiddling with the metallic square, but the tension was slowly dissipating from his body.

Dave wanted to reassure Reid he only had a few more sections to go, but knew he wouldn’t be able to hear him over the buzzer. He moved his hand to the other side of his neck as he finished the other side. He tried to keep his movements steady as Reid’s hand shot up, but not into the air. Rossi froze as Reid’s hand grasped where Rossi’s hand had a steady grip on his neck, but it wasn’t to move it. He was seeking comfort. After a brief moment, Rossi continued, only when he was absolutely sure the death grip wasn’t a signal for him to stop.

Dave took a deep breath as he continued, feeling extraordinarily warmed by Reid’s trust. He knew this wasn’t easy for him.

Reid’s hand stayed in place, half on top of Rossi’s. His fingers held a vice-like grip. But his pointer finger was tapping up and down against Rossi’s hand. It was a pattern, not a signal to get his attention.

Rossi was so focused on the task at hand that he almost missed the pattern repeating itself. It wasn’t just nervous tapping.

Long. Short-short-short-short. Short-long. Long-short. Long-short-long. Long-short-long-long. Long-long-long. Short-short-long.

Repeat.

Rossi wracked his brain for a skill he thought he had long forgotten, but it returned to him like the lyrics of an old song. He hadn’t used Morse since his military days, and while it had been decades ago, it felt like yesterday.

Long. Short-short-short-….

_Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._

Long. Short-short-short…

“I’ve got you, kiddo,” Rossi repeated, increasing his grip half a fraction. He didn’t know if Reid heard him. Rossi finished his last stripe, right at the base of Reid’s neck. As soon as he flipped the buzzer off, he only had a fraction of a second to admire his work before Reid shot up from his position on the floor. Spencer sprang up, his hands flapping and head swinging as he mumbled something to himself, rocking slightly on his heels. He froze for a microsecond, looking up at Rossi. His face instantly turned red as he tucked his hands under his armpits, but was still rocking slightly.

“Sorry,” he mumbled.

Rossi knew what this was, but didn’t want to embarrass Spencer. He remembered his first week working with the genius; he had assumed the kid was either over-caffeinated or….

Well. He had assumed the kid had a drug habit, like some sort of stimulant. He could not have been more wrong. Hotch was very quick to correct him that no, it wasn’t just tweaking. Funny that, how one assumption could be so on-the-head in one aspect, but dreadfully wrong in another.

“Nah,” Rossi admonished, standing up and stretching his shoulder. “It’s okay, I’ve gotta stretch too. Go ahead, I can’t imagine how much you need to after sitting on the floor that long.”

Rossi purposefully overexaggerated his stretching. Reid probably knew what he was doing, but didn’t question in. The younger agent continued stimming, which began to include running his hands over the back of his freshly shaved neck. He ran his fingertips over the short hair repetitively, smiling, rocking back and forth excitedly.

Rossi poured himself another glass of wine, purposely letting Spencer stim without feeling like a spectacle. When he noticed the young man’s body language begin to slow, he beckoned him to his bathroom.

Dave knew he would be sore in the morning. But being slightly achy from hunching over the genius was a small price to pay to see the bright smile Spencer flashed in the mirror when he saw his hair.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Well hello!” JJ said as Reid practically crashed into the conference room, his messenger bag halfway off his shoulders as he rushed in. 

“What, did you join a boy band?” Hotch asked, his eyebrows almost flying into his hairline.

“No,” Reid combated, sitting down.

There was a split second of silence before Hotch grinned, and after seeing his mentor’s approval, Reid glanced at Rossi.

Rossi shrugged minutely, a small smile drawing at the corner of his lips. Reid’s face darkened a shade, but he gave a silent thanks as he refocused his attention to the file. Rossi’s body filled with warmth as he saw the fifteen puzzle just peeking out of Reid’s best pocket.

The rest of the briefing proceeded as usual. As they all filed out, Rossi caught Morgan running his hands through Reid’s hair, making kissy faces. Reid swatted his hand away, but was smiling nonetheless. JJ and Garcia were also playfully fussing over him as Emily followed. Rossi got up from his seat, stretching his neck slightly. He caught Aaron starting at him as he collected case files.

“Nice work, Dave.”

Rossi gave him a knowing look. “Let no one else say I’m not still in touch with the youth.”

“Never!” Hotch said, voice low but smiling. “Are we still on for Friday? Unfortunately, I don’t think I can pull off long in the front.”

“Of course,” Dave responded. “Can’t have a Unit Chief with fringe. But don’t you go letting on—soon enough I’ll have Garcia asking me to bleach her hair, and my carpet won’t survive that.”

He clasped Aaron’s shoulder as they walked out, watching fondly as the rest of their unit play-fought in the bullpen as they collected their things.

“We are still young, right?” Rossi asked, already knowing the answer.

Aaron hesitated, crossing his arms and looking back at Dave. “Mmm. I can’t decide if they keep us young or age us more.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So? Pappa Rosi anyone??? :D Also I had a fifteen puzzle growing up and they are SO FUN to stim with. Thank you to each and every one of you who takes the time to leave a kudos and esp a review--you all are so kind and completely light up my week. More to come!! <3


	6. Seeing is Believing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ 1.) your response to my last chapter had me in tears. You all are so sweet and I could not be more grateful, especially after a rough week. 
> 
> 2.) This chapter is not for the light of heart. It deals with an aspect I really wanted to address, which was an "inappropriate" reaction to death and difficulty processing emotions. It deals with death, grief, and some other themes some may find disturbing or upsetting. I don't think the show did a great job with what a long process grief can be. If you are having a bad day, maybe go have a cuppa and come back later (or skip this chapter entirely if this isn't your thing, I promise I won't be mad <3) I've been debating back and forth whether to post this bc I'm still not sure after two weeks of tweaking if I liked the way it turned out, but oh well!! No rag-rets. Enjoy!

_“People have an innate curiosity to see things to confirm them.”_

“Spence,” JJ pleaded softly, pressing a hand against his chest as he attempted to weave past her. 

“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” he said, voice hoarse as he stared at the ground in disbelief. 

“Come here,” she whispered, pulling him into a hug. She was shocked when he reciprocated, fingers gripping painfully into her back. She felt his rapid breathing turn into sobs as she pulled him impossibly closer, her shirt collar becoming warm and damp. She felt one of his knees begin to buckle and shouldered his weight as his head fell into her shoulder. 

JJ doesn’t remember how long they remained like that, swaying slightly as their teammates cried in the background. 

She doesn’t remember when the pressure stopped or who let go first. She was too focused on trying to wrap her arms around him as tightly as possible. He was a castle of cards that was collapsing and she had to do everything to keep him upright. They stayed like that for what could have been minutes or hours; the only thing keeping her grounded was his rapid heartbeat thumping against her chest. Her tight grip eventually loosened to a back rub, a maternal motion that had become autopilot through many late nights with sick Henry. 

She remembers making eye contact with Hotch in the hallway, a moment of hyper-focused clarity cutting through her numb exterior.

She remembers their conversation.

“It was the best way,” she felt herself whisper. It was a question disguised as a self-reassurance; if she kept repeating the words, maybe she would believe them. 

“I know,” Hotch said gravely, his voice low. Ultimately, he had the larger part in this entire set up. They both were aware of the ramifications of this choice and had already discussed that they would talk about details later. Everything was too volatile and fresh to discuss right now. He gave her a knowing look before walking out, falling seamlessly into the part they had both agreed to play. 

Surely they could feel it, the acid guilt oozing from her in waves as tears fell from their eyes. They had to see past the charade. They couldn't be that blind.

She doesn’t remember walking back to the waiting room, doesn’t remember what she was thinking as she forced her jerky legs to walk forward. Seaver was walking out solemnly. Morgan was practically carrying Garcia back to his car as her makeup smeared across his shirt. Rossi hadn’t moved, tears slowly slipping off his grimaced face as he waited for Hotch. 

Spencer was standing exactly where JJ had left him, arms wrapped around his own midsection and eyes drilling holes into the linoleum. If it wasn’t for silent sobs shaking his body, JJ would have mistaken him for a statue.

“Let’s go home,” JJ muttered, barely recognizing her own voice. She placed a hand around his shoulder. She figured he could tolerate physical contact as long as it had pressure behind it, grounding rather than gentle and irritating. 

“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye.”

JJ drew in a shuddered breath, feeling a fresh wave of tears prickling the back of her eyes. “I know,” she coaxed, trying to lead him out of the waiting room. 

Reid whipped his head up, alarming her. “No, I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye!” he repeated urgently, pulling his arm from her grip and trying to walk in the opposite direction.

He was trying to walk back to the hall that led to the operating room.

“Spencer,” JJ exclaimed, rushing after his impossibly long figure. She didn’t want to grab his arm again, afraid of how he would react.

Luckily, Aaron was closer and had been watching the exchange warily. He stepped in front of the large doors heading down the hallway, cautiously putting his hands up but effectively blocking Reid’s path. 

“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” Reid repeated, his face red and wet but eyes determined. He made direct eye contact with Hotch, hands balling into fists at his side. He was shaking.

He looked like a cornered animal. Desperate. He took another rushed step forward.

“Reid,” Hotch warned, but his voice didn’t hold its normal strength. It sounded exhausted. It was the first time since JJ made the announcement that she perceived Hotch’s tone as genuinely grieving rather than guilty. 

“I need to,” Reid started, rushing forward only to be blocked by Hotch’s broad hands on his shoulders. Reid fought back, fists attempting to land a blow on the strong arms holding him back. Even subconsciously, Reid knew not to get near his boss’s stomach. Hotch said nothing, stoically keeping his attention focused on not letting Reid pass through the doors. Eventually, Spencer’s aggression devolved into fatigue, his attempts to break free losing their vigor, a wind-up toy slowing down. 

“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” Reid uttered, a wearied panic seeping into his voice. “I have to see her. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Hotch, please. I have to say goodbye. I have to see…” He continued to repeat his mantra, as if Hotch would understand some hidden meaning behind it. 

“Spence, please,” JJ said, vision blurring with tears as she stood helpless. 

Hotch moved his grip on Reid’s shoulders down to the sides of his arms, waiting until Reid was still enough to meet his gaze. 

“You don’t want to…” Hotch started slowly, but he was interrupted. 

“Don’t want to see her body, don’t want to remember her like that?” Reid interjected quickly, his tone sharp. “For God’s sake, don’t treat me like a victim’s family. Please Hotch, I th—I thought you would understand. I have to say goodbye. I have to say goodbye. You got to with Haley.” 

Aaron’s stone-faced façade cracked for a millisecond as he swallowed thickly. “I wish I hadn’t. It makes it worse. I wish I could forget.”

“You don’t get to make that decision for me,” Reid insisted bitterly. His words became frenzied as tears began to resume. “I have to see her, I have to say…” 

“Spencer, I am making this call as a friend. But even if I wasn’t, the hospital wouldn’t allow it. She was an organ donor,” Hotch said quietly. “You know how quickly…That isn’t her anymore.”

JJ bit back a gag. She knew that Emily was not lying on a table, doctors searching for any viable organs. But the ease at which Aaron pulled the lie out of the air, and just the very thought of her friend still in critical condition, made her feel violently sick.

The thought did not seem to bother Reid as much as it did JJ. Small consolation. 

Without warning, JJ stumbled to a trash can, emptying the few contents of her stomach. Rossi, Hotch, and Reid all rushed over, although the youngest agent looked the most hesitant, like he had been woken from a daze. He stood slightly behind the other two men, eyes vacant. 

Rossi handed her a tissue to wipe her mouth. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” JJ stuttered. Hotch remained still. “Can we go home?” she asked, looking at Spencer. 

This wasn’t a ruse to her anymore. They didn’t need to know that she wasn’t referring to the loss of her friend. This was so much deeper. 

She was confident she wouldn’t tell anyone. It wasn’t an option. This was life or death for Emily, and potentially Declan; there was no room for error or even the slightest acknowledgment that something was amiss. JJ always had a proclivity for thinking before speaking, being good at playing the long game as she carefully pondered her words. That’s what made her such a good Communications Liaison. 

But she didn’t know lying to her family would hurt this much. 

“I’ll drive you home,” Hotch said, nodding at JJ. “Reid, where am I taking you?”

“I have to wait until she’s…”

“Spencer,” JJ whimpered, trying to keep her composure. “She’s gone. We have to go home.” 

“Reid, where am I taking you?” Hotch repeated. 

“He’s staying at mine,” Rossi interjected, his voice little more than a croak. When Reid opened his mouth to protest, Rossi elaborated. “You shouldn’t be alone. None of us should be.” 

“Emily is,” Reid whispered.

JJ doesn’t remember how she got into the car.

She closed her swollen eyes and when she opened them, she was sitting with Hotch in her driveway, the car engine thrumming lightly. 

“It won’t be forever,” Hotch spoke, his normally forceful voice a soft baritone. “But if we didn’t do this, we would lose her, and probably many others on this team, forever.”

“I think we already have,” JJ admitted, eyes fixed on the dashboard. 

“It’s not forever,” Hotch reiterated. 

“Doesn’t that make it even worse?” 

Hotch remained silent. “I’m sorry to put you in this position. I’m going to request time off for the team. Rossi’s got Spencer tonight. Are you going to be okay?”

“I don’t know how to look at him in the eye,” JJ confessed. 

“I’ll handle the logistics and details. He just needs a friend. He’s strong, and I know it’s not fair to ask of you, but he needs you to be strong too,” Hotch asserted. “You can come to me any time, but that’s a future issue. What do you need right now?”

JJ raised her head, running a shaky hand through her hair. “I can’t…what do I tell Will?”

Hotch frowned. “He can’t know. If any of Doyle’s associates came after him to get to you, both of you would be compromised.”

“I don’t know if I have it in me to lie anymore,” JJ said, exhaling deeply. “I just need a minute.”

Hotch, in a slow but certain movement, wrapped a hand around one of hers. “I’ve got it. Take all the time you need.” He gave her hand a squeeze before exiting the car. She saw Will answer the door with Henry on his hip. His eyes instantly traveled to her through the windshield, smile falling as he took her expression in.

She watched Hotch mutter something to Will, her vision blurring with tears. Her thoughts traveled to Emily, lying somewhere alone, cold, and in pain, little more than a shell with machines trying to keep her alive. She thought of Garcia and Morgan, probably both at Penelope’s, Morgan soothing her while he blamed himself. She thought of Rossi, exhausted as each new loss aged his face and chipped away at his spirit. 

She thought of Spencer, and let the sobs she had been holding back escape. 

She doesn’t remember how she got into her bed, Henry between her and Will. His small body pressed into her chest as if to fill the hollow space she didn’t know how to fill on her own. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

JJ thought she was ready for the funeral. She had five days to prepare herself. It turned out five days to build up her resolve wasn’t enough. And even then, she knew it wouldn’t end after the service. It would be a long process of keeping up a façade until maybe it didn’t hurt as much, until the team adjusted, until the grief of losing their friend was a whisper in the back of their minds rather than a scream.

But JJ had lost a sister. She knew grief didn’t work like that. Was it selfish of her to wish that it did, that they should forget a little faster to allow her to feel like she could breathe?

She doesn’t remember most of the funeral itself. Really, did it even matter? It was a lie, a ruse set up to cruelly mock her grieving friends as she had to pretend to feel sad. It was all an act. 

She cried, but it wasn’t out of grief. 

All she could feel was self-loathing. 

She looked around at her makeshift family during the service. 

Rossi was stoic and quiet, his eyes betraying that his focus was really somewhere far off. This wasn’t his first loss. JJ knew Rossi had loved Emily as a daughter and colleague. His experience with death, both that of friends and family, didn’t diminish that pain. But he was familiar with the feeling, and maybe that made it easier to keep up a solid resolve.

Seaver was sad, but to a lesser degree—she had barely known Emily, but even in that short time, she had realized what an effect the agent had on the team. Seaver’s silence was more out of respect for her new team and recognizing that this was part of the job. 

Penelope was crying, but not as fervently as she once had been. JJ could see that whenever her eyes began to well up, she smiled, forcing herself to think of a positive memory. She was clinging to Morgan.

Morgan was sad, but his face held something else. His tears were not stoic or forlorn, but angry. JJ could see where his hatred was not lashing out, but rather clawing away on the inside, filling him with a determined rage. That made it all the more surprising that he was not crushing Penelope’s hand, but holding on firmly, acting as her rock that was crumbling on the inside but building stronger layers on the outside. 

Hotch’s expression was similar to Rossi’s; he looked drained. JJ knew the bags under his eyes were not necessarily from grief, but from many late nights of logistics and planning for Emily to be moved, as well as accepting the emotional burden his team was suffering. The lines in his face looked deeper, his eyes miserable as he kept on a strong front for those around him. JJ could feel his gaze drill into her but she kept her eyes to herself. Logically, she knew this wasn’t a test. Hotch wasn’t watching her to see if she would betray anything; it was a genuine concern that he expressed through being unceasingly secure, their composed boss who always had his shit together. He wasn’t a blinker. 

Reid was a lot harder to decipher. He remained quiet, but his body language was sluggish and unsure. His shoulders curled inwards as if he were carrying boulders, Atlas slowly beginning to tire under the unrelenting weight. His eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, only accentuated by the bags underneath them. He was wearing multiple layers despite the warm spring weather, his hands fisted weakly in his pockets. 

Words were said, tears fell, and flowers laid on the coffin. The team slowly drifted away, insisting on a drink. JJ was collecting the pamphlets off the chairs, promising to meet them there. They understood her unspoken message—she needed time alone with Emily. 

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that she barely noticed one lone figure standing at the coffin, hair a characteristic mess. 

She thought he was fiddling with the roses on top of the coffin, or maybe stroking the edge. 

JJ gasped. 

Reid, tears streaming down his face, was trying to subtly lift the lid of the coffin. It wasn’t forceful, just a light finger across the edge. JJ knew he wouldn’t be successful, but felt nauseous at the intention he was displaying. 

“Spencer, what are you doing?!”

“I didn’t get the chance to say goodbye,” Reid said, but his voice didn’t hold the urgency it did at the hospital. It was tired and strained, as if he hadn’t actually spoken out loud in days. 

JJ grabbed his hand and pulled him a few steps backward. “You can’t do that, Spence. Please tell me what is going on.”

“It doesn’t make sense, but I have to know,” Reid said. “She can’t just be here one second and gone the next. I…I hate it and I know it’s wrong but I can’t stop thinking about it. I have to know, JJ.” 

“I know it’s hard,” JJ urged, “but you can’t do this.”

“I know,” Reid whispered. “I’m sorry. I know they’re nailed or sealed shut anyways.” He took a step back and turned in a circle, both palms pressing into his eyes as his words became rushed. “I’m sorry. That was so inappropriate. Damnit. I didn’t want to see her like…I just have to know. I’m sorry. I can’t shut it off.” 

“It’s okay. I’m guessing you don’t want to join the others?”

“I can’t,” Reid responded, dropping his hands from his eyes and gazing at the coffin. “I can’t be around them right now. I can’t be around myself right now. JJ, I don’t… I don’t know how to do this. And it hurts so much.”

Reid’s shoulders were curled inwards as he continued staring at the coffin, a shaky hand coming up to his face in an unsuccessful attempt to wipe away the unabating tears that had resurfaced. Slowly, JJ took Reid’s hand in her own, pressing her arm against the side of his body. 

“Where do you want to go?” JJ asked softly. 

When he spoke, his voice was impossibly small. “I don’t want to go home.” 

“You can come to my house. Do you want to leave now or do you need longer?” JJ asked. “We can take as much time as you need.”

“Now,” Reid whispered, despite making no intention to move. 

JJ gently turned, expecting Reid to let go of her hand. Instead, he gripped it tighter, pressing the entire side of his body against hers as they walked back to her car. Luckily his slow trudge meant JJ could keep up with him. He only released her hand once they got in the car. It was unspoken that she would drive.

They rode in silence for a while. Reid’s gaze was on the floorboards before he suddenly jerked his head up. 

“Wait, what about Will and Henry?” Reid asked. “I don’t want to impose.”

“Will has him at the park with a friend,” JJ reassured. “I’ll call and tell him to extend Henry’s playtime. He’ll be delighted. And you could never impose.”

The rest of the ride was silent. The further they drove, the more JJ began to notice Reid’s body language begin to devolve. He had been still at first, yet slowly became more fidgety, gazing out the window as one of his legs shook. 

“You okay?” JJ asked. 

Reid gave no indication he heard her. His face was losing color as he removed his scarf and unbuttoned his shirt collar, tipping his head back against the seat. 

“Spence?”

“Can you…” Reid cut himself off, taking a deep breath and holding it momentarily. “Can you pull over?”

JJ’s eyes widened, silently thanking they were already in the far-right lane. She quickly pulled the car to the side of the road as Reid leapt from his seat, hunching over. JJ pulled a disposable water bottle from the back as she watched him dry heave painfully, shoulders lurching with effort. She swiped a tissue from her purse as she hurried from the car. After a few moments, Spencer straightened out, squinting with red-rimmed eyes to avoid the sun. He gratefully accepted the water and tissue, wiping his face and taking a small sip of water. His color was still off; his face was dreadfully pale except for the red splotches on his cheeks and around his eyes, sweat slowly beading at his hairline. 

“Are you okay?” JJ asked cautiously. “Maybe you should take off your jacket. Are you too hot?”

Reid shook his head. “I’m sorry. I can’t…” He clenched a fist at his side, looking lost for words.

“Okay, let’s just get you home and we’ll talk about it there.” 

The rest of the ride proceeded in silence as JJ shot Reid glances. He was still stiff, refusing to make eye contact. His leg was still bouncing, his eyes were still swollen, and JJ’s heart was still aching. 

When they got to her house, Reid stood awkwardly in the doorway. 

“Go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I’ll call Will,” JJ said, setting her bag on the counter. She walked to her bedroom, typing into her phone. 

Will’s phone went to voicemail. JJ smiled. Will was fastidious about answering his phone, but when it was playtime, he was completely focused on being present. She smiled at the thought of Will helping Henry down the slide. She didn’t know where either of them got the energy, but it hopefully meant Henry would sleep well tonight. She typed out a quick text to will. 

_Funeral was beautiful but hard. Just brought Spence back—he’s not doing well. Can you keep Henry out longer?_

JJ was about to slip her phone back into her pocket, knowing it would take Will a while to respond if he was out playing. She hesitated before deciding to send another text. 

_Spencer w/ me. Didn’t want to be around team._

**OK. Keep me updated.**

JJ wasn’t surprised when Hotch’s text came back within seconds. She secretly wished it had been more reassuring or had given her more advice on how to handle the situation. 

She sighed, making her way back into her living room. Reid was sitting on the couch with his back ramrod straight, trying to take up as little space as possible. His head was downcast as he stared at his hands. JJ sat down gently, turning to face him. 

“You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to,” JJ started. “But I don’t want you to feel like you’re responsible for shutting down and handling this on your own. This is a lot to process.”

Reid simply nodded.

“What happened back there in the car?” JJ asked, knowing that picking a definite starting point was better than simply asking how he was feeling. She knew Spencer didn’t process his emotions that way. Asking him a vague question would leave him stranded at sea, overwhelmed by the vast waves. He needed a specific anchoring point. 

“She’s gonna be there alone. It’s not right,” Reid said slowly. “She shouldn’t be alone. She made me feel not alone, and I can’t do the same for her. We can’t just drive away while she lies there abandoned.”

“She’s not alone or abandoned,” JJ reassured softly, brows slightly furrowed at his choice of words. “She knew how much we loved her. I know you don’t believe in the spiritual, but that…that’s not her in the ground.” JJ tried not to wince at the implications of her own words. "People are more than their physical being."

A little too on the head. 

“My uncle had an open casket funeral,” Reid recalled, eyes furrowing. “It was my first time seeing a dead body. I was fifteen. He was my mom’s brother. She was just beginning to get bad at that point, and refused to look at him. But I was curious. I know…I know it’s sickening. But I got to see him for a last time, and somehow, it made sense. I know Hotch said it makes it worse, but I need to know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“You needed closure. There’s nothing wrong with you, Spence.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Reid whispered. JJ’s eyes widened. 

“What? I would never…”

“Everyone is!” Reid shouted, tears streaming down his face. “I don’t know how to deal with this. Everyone leaves and it’s always out of nowhere and I never get a chance to say goodbye. My dad, Elle, Gideon—they all leave. It’s not difficult to see the common denominator.”

“But they aren’t dead,” JJ said. 

“We don’t know that,” Reid protested. “If I didn’t know him any better, I’d say the letter Gideon left me was a suicide note.”

“But you _do_ know him better,” JJ coaxed. “Which is why you know that isn’t true.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Reid responded. “They all leave. And for some reason, I never get to know how or why. They can just leave on their own terms without saying goodbye to any of us left here with the consequences. They leave and I’m stuck with this…feeling. It’s not fair.” 

“What feeling?” JJ asked, deciding to lightly prod. She couldn’t help him process his emotions if she didn’t even know what exactly there was to process. 

“Emptiness. I know the stages of grief would call it denial. Kübler-Ross would be interested to hear that now they’re considering expanding it to seven stages. But…” Reid swallowed thickly, looking back down to where he was picking at one of his fingers. JJ remained silent, waiting for him to work through whatever he was struggling to say. 

“I know it’s wrong,” Reid said quietly, his voice detached, “but if I can’t see her body, it’s almost like she…isn’t really dead. Like she might still be alive.”

JJ tried holding back tears, but they sprung forward before she could choke them back. 

Reid’s eyes widened when he realized what he had said upset her. “I’m sorry,” he stuttered. “I’m so sorry, I know I can’t just…”

Before he could finish his sentence, JJ was nearly falling forward into his arms. He hesitated for a moment before wrapping a shaky arm around her. 

“I’m sorry,” JJ sniffled, horrified, trying to push herself to sit straight forward. "This was supposed to be the other way around." He kept his arm around her. 

“No, it’s alright,” he said slowly. “I…I think I need this. To remind me, you know? That this is real. I’m still not sure. But you're allowed to hurt. She was your friend too.”

JJ nodded stiffly against Spencer’s shoulder, embarrassment and anger filling her chest. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
The next two days were her rebuilding period. Two more days until they went back to cases. Unlike her time to prepare for the funeral, JJ had used her time…efficiently. Well, efficiently felt like the wrong word. There was no way to efficiently push these feelings back. 

It wasn’t about pushing the guilt down. 

It was about building armor around it so that it couldn’t lash out at those around her, creating a solid structure that kept it locked in and away from peering eyes. 

Their first case back was so urgent that they didn’t have time to think about meeting at the roundtable, didn’t have time to feel the looming presence of Prentiss’s empty desk. Rather than meeting at eight am, she had gotten a call from Hotch at three, saying they needed to meet on the tarmac immediately. Figures that their first case back would be a spree killer. 

Whisked away by the adrenaline of a new case, JJ rushed over, boarding the plane and immediately taking a file from Hotch. Everyone was on the jet except for Reid, who Hotch had gotten a call from saying he was minutes away. 

When he finally arrived, he was disheveled, hair sticking up, shirt wrinkled, and his dark circles so pronounced he almost looked sick. Reid was stood in the doorway of the jet, his brows furrowed. He looked paralyzed. 

“You coming, doc?” Morgan asked, causing the young agent to snap his head up. A noise died in his throat as he shifted, his eyes going back to the ground. His feet were barely moving, as if there was an invisible barrier that was preventing him from entering the plane. 

“Did you forget something?” Hotch asked briskly. Spencer shook his head, dazed. “Reid, LAPD is waiting.”

That seemed to snap the young man out of the trance he had been caught in, and he crossed the threshold into the jet, immediately depositing himself and his messenger bag onto the couch. 

“Sorry,” Reid muttered, accepting a file from JJ and pressing his back against the corner of the couch and jet wall. 

Hotch began talking, but JJ’s eyes flashed to Reid, whose attention was clearly not on the file. His eyes kept flicking between the different seats on the jet, like he was searching for something. He wasn’t interjecting as usual, but Hotch seemed to notice his preoccupied state and said nothing. In the ten minutes it took to brief and takeoff, Reid’s body language had gone from moderately uncomfortable to nearly unable to sit still, restless and desperate energy possessing him.

When Hotch finished, Reid all but sprung up from his seat, moving to the back of the jet. JJ approached the man as he was pouring coffee into his thermos. 

“You alright?” JJ asked. Reid didn’t respond as he began spooning white mounds of sugar into his coffee. “Ah, caffeine and a sugar rush.”

“Sugar rush is actually a myth,” Reid responded quickly. “When allergist Benjamin Feingold suggested in 1973 that dyes and artificial ingredients could cause behavioral problems in children, every parent started following his diet in hopes of calming their children down. But somehow sugar got roped into the artificial category. The only children that were really affected were those with undiagnosed ADHD or preexisting low sugar levels. Plus the occasions when we normally give children sugar are special or social events, where they’re already hyper.” 

“Not unlike someone else right now,” JJ said slowly, attempting to mask her concern. 

“It’s poor science that equates correlation with causation,” Reid responded, glossing over her comment. He was on spoonful number five, but his hands were shaking so badly that only half of the granules seemed to make it into the cup. 

“Spence,” JJ gently prompted, placing her hand over his own to remove the spoon. Reid pulled his hand back as if he had been burned. 

“Sorry,” she quickly apologized, slightly relieved when he began using the spoon to stir in the sugar sitting at the bottom of his cup rather than adding more. “Hey, talk to me. It doesn’t look like you slept last night. How are you holding up?” 

Reid remained silent, stirring motion slowing down. 

“It’s okay if you don’t feel ready to go back to work,” JJ coaxed.

“It’s not right,” Reid muttered. 

JJ nodded weakly. “I know.”  
  
“No, you don’t!” Reid exclaimed. He was trying to keep quiet, but the higher pitch of his voice betrayed his irritation. “None of this is right. We aren’t supposed to board the jet at night. We are supposed to do the debrief in the conference room about the victims and then look at possible suspects on the jet. And then Garcia is supposed to call us about the local police force while we’re in the air. And…and _she’s_ supposed to be sitting right there. And then we get to the local PD, and she makes sure to offhandedly refer me as a doctor as a not-so-subtle reminder that doctor is my technical title so that the force uses it, even though it’s never bothered me, and…” 

Reid’s voice died off in his throat as his eyes welled up.

“I know, Spence,” JJ said softly. “It’s okay, and you’re right; it doesn’t feel right without her.”

“It keeps happening,” he ground out angrily, tears threatening to spill over. “I wake up, and for a split second, everything is okay. And then something small reminds me of her and it comes rushing back and it’s not fair that she’s gone. I can’t…she should be here. She can’t just be here one day and then gone the next! It doesn’t make sense, and I don’t know how… ” Reid faltered, his earlier anger shifting into a frenzied panic, his breath beginning to come out in rapid gasps. 

JJ moved the mug out of his hands before he dropped it. “Okay, what can I do?”

Reid rapidly shook his head, leaning over the coffee counter. JJ turned around to make sure the rest of the team wasn’t staring. She briefly met Hotch’s concerned gaze before turning back around. She shifted slightly, hoping to block his rapidly weakening stance from the rest of the jet. 

“What’s the point of a pattern if I can’t stop it,” he muttered, hands gripping the counter.

“What?” JJ asked curiously. 

Reid didn’t make eye contact. “My dad, Elle, Gideon, and now Emily. It’s a pattern.”

JJ remembered him saying something similar after the funeral, but her train of thought was interrupted when Spencer took a shaky breath and continued. 

“They all leave without warning. The only common denominator is me. There’s no point in being able to recognize a destructive pattern if I can’t do anything to stop it. But I know they’re all still out there, somehow. My dad is at his firm, Elle is off working in another division, and Gideon is probably in the forest. But Emily…she can’t just leave. She can’t just be gone. I don’t know how to deal with this. I don’t know how to get over it.”

“You don’t have to,” JJ muttered. “Everyone understands if you need time. This is going to be hard for all of us—you aren’t alone in this. I know you have a tendency to see patterns in everything, but there isn't one here for you to analyze. It's just how it is.”

Reid nodded, but didn’t look certain. 

“Let’s just get through this case, and you can come over tonight,” JJ suggested as Reid seemed to calm down. 

Reid took a deep breath. “Thank you,” he said quietly. He took a few more deep breaths before walking to the bathroom, avoiding eye contact with everyone on the plane as he did so. 

JJ eyed Emily’s normal seat as she sat down, a sick feeling settling in the pit of her stomach. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  
The first week after returning to work, Reid came over twice. He was surprisingly closed off, seemingly more concerned with how his words would affect JJ than actually baring his soul. 

The second week was worse. JJ slowly watched as Reid’s thin frame somehow became thinner. He was there earlier than any of them, spending time at the shooting range, which came as a slight shock. He was pale and closed off, haunted eyes firing round after round into imaginary targets. But his hands begin to slip as his aim got worse and eyes begin to droop during briefings, and JJ reaffirmed her offer to talk. He reluctantly took her up on it after falling asleep at his desk, embarrassed at drawing Hotch’s attention.

That night Reid was back on her couch as Will put Henry to sleep. Will had been very understanding, knowing to conveniently slip away as he gave the two time alone. He knew the bond they shared was one that was difficult to understand from the outside. He had offered tea and coffee, and generally kept Henry away from the living room, offering a sympathetic smile as he walked out. 

“I don’t know what I’m allowed to say,” Reid muttered, breaking the silence. His eyes more swollen than the actual week Prentiss had died. 

“There aren’t rules,” JJ said, her chest tightening as she felt his hesitation. “This isn’t a test. I’m not Hotch; this isn’t getting written down in a file for Strauss. I’m your friend. You can say whatever you feel.”

“I know,” Reid responded. “But I also know my reactions aren’t normal.”

“There’s no normal way to process grief.” 

Spencer let out a bitter chuckle. “This isn’t grief. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like it.”

“What does it feel like?” JJ asked. 

“Like I haven’t woken up from a nightmare,” Reid said coarsely. “I know what the books say about the complex emotions that come with grief. But this isn’t even close. This feels like dying, like my world is restarting every four seconds and I am helpless to stop it. I can’t stop thinking about it. I…I feel like I’m losing my mind, and know that deep down I haven’t really ‘processed’ it. I don’t know how I’m supposed to get over her death when I haven’t really accepted that she’s gone. It’s setting myself up for failure but I can’t let go of that hope. I keep…I keep waiting for her to walk through that door.” 

JJ felt her heart shatter. “Me too.”

The third week JJ didn’t hear from Reid outside the office. He mumbled excuses about complications with his mom. She didn’t fail to notice him taking ibuprofen like candy, never leaving the jet without his sunglasses, and wincing at loud noises. It seemed less like grief and more like an eternal migraine. He avoided the others at all costs. Every sleepless night resulted in another layer of sweaters or vests and two more cups of coffee. 

The fourth week, things seemed like they may have gotten better. Reid had smiled during one of Garcia’s quips during a case—it was short-lived, but still present. JJ was so caught up in a potential transfer and other Bureau issues that selfishly enough, she forgot. It was only a split second; it was a mere moment where things seemed briefly okay. The team was slowly starting to adapt, and their lessening grief meant her guilt was able to subside for a brief moment. 

Then they had the case in Portland with Ben Foster, the paranoid schizophrenic who killed violently just to sleep. 

They knew it would be a difficult case for Spencer. Morgan paid extra attention to him, and JJ watched his entire body twitch during the debrief. She watched Morgan follow him into the bathroom after the debrief, and accepted that he could handle the situation. Reid came out more determined, and honestly, seemed okay. 

The case ended and they all went home. 

She got a call from Spencer at four am, nearly unintelligible between his panicked sobs. 

By the time she made it to his apartment, the genius was nowhere to be seen. She turned the corner into his bedroom, where she spotted him. He was tucked in a small space between his bed and his wall, just barely enough room to walk through. It was dark in the room, but she could just barely make out his lithe form, with his knees curled up to his chest. 

“Spencer?” she asked cautiously, waiting for him to have the opportunity to tell her he needed space. She cautiously approached him and sat down next to him. 

He remained silent, but even in the dark lighting JJ could see that he had been crying for hours, his face swollen and blotchy. His arms were squeezing tightly around his midsection, shaking slightly.

“I’m here for whatever you need,” she said quietly. “You can say whatever you need to, even if you think it sounds silly or doesn’t make any sense.”

He didn’t say anything. 

They sat like that for half an hour, JJ keeping space between them as Spencer’s body quivered next to hers. The silence was pierced by the occasional sniffle and few late-night taxis outside. Unlike most times Spencer tended to go silent, JJ didn’t say anything. She simply sat next to him, a comforting presence for whatever was racing through his head. 

Reid cleared his throat before speaking, but his voice was still a painful rasp. It was a sharp contrast to the comfortable silence they had fallen into. “Everyone already seems to be over it. I can barely be around them. Morgan and Garcia were joking today and I wanted to scream. Seaver keeps trying to talk to me and it makes me feel nauseous. I don’t want to be mean to her, but I can’t help it. It’s not fair that she’s here on the team and Emily isn’t. She didn’t kill Emily.”

He shifted, arms squeezing tighter around himself. “I don’t understand what’s wrong with me. I knew this was coming. But like always, I’m behind everyone else. They’re moving on and I just keep getting worse. It's been nearly two months. I don’t know why I can’t get rid of this feeling. I…I can’t sleep. My head feels like it’s imploding and I can’t focus on a file for longer than thirty seconds without thinking of her and feeling like I’m suffocating. And I can’t stop crying. I didn’t know I was physically able to cry so much. I hate the feeling. It makes my head hurt and feels like I’m carrying a bowling ball.”

JJ nodded. “They haven’t gotten over it, Spence. I promise. It hits everyone differently. They may be trying to adjust on the outside, but I promise they haven’t forgotten. And that last case was not easy for you. But you have to give yourself a break. You have to eat and sleep.”

“I’ve tried everything,” Reid responded miserably, fatigue slipping into his voice. “You know, at least I don’t have to wonder anymore.”

“Wonder about what?” JJ asked. 

“Why Gideon left,” Reid whispered. “I don’t have to wonder why anymore. I was so angry at him for leaving. Sure, he left a note, but I didn’t care. Leave it to Gideon to be vague, one final mysterious exit. He wrote, ‘I just don’t understand any of it anymore.’ I finally know what he was talking about. This is…excruciating. It’s unfair. And I don’t know how to make it better.” 

“Time,” JJ said. “It’s all we can do, just push through each day. It still hurts. But time allows us to get stronger.”

“I don’t know if I can wait that long. It’s just making it worse.”

All it took was JJ’s hesitant hand on his shoulder before he lost all composure. 

He spent the next five weeks coming to her apartment in tears, his emotional dam broken. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
JJ could not describe the immense relief that flooded her person when Reid tentatively walked into Rossi’s, flashing her and Emily a bittersweet smile. She had already prepared herself for the very likely possibility that he wouldn’t. 

Reid’s anger the past week had been completely justified. JJ felt her chest constrict when Emily first walked into the room a few days ago, a ghost returning after even months, and Reid sat motionlessly. She watched a multitude of emotions flicker across his face before he composed himself. He was surprisingly focused on saving Declan for the remainder of the case, hardly taking a second to accept she was back before he was questioning her about Doyle. He had repressed his shock until the case was over. It wasn’t until the following week that he began lashing out at JJ, and stealing wary glances at Emily, as if she were just a figment of his imagination. 

Despite trying to make him understand that she had no other choice, JJ accepted every passive-aggressive taunt he threw at her. She deserved it. She knew nothing could possibly hurt as much as the lies she had spoon-fed him, the fake consolation she offered as he opened up to her in a rare moment of sorrow.

Tears could be quite the killer. 

At the end of the night, everyone was warm and content, bellies filled with wine and pasta. It felt like a small semblance of what they used to be, and JJ felt like she could finally breathe. 

JJ said goodnight to Rossi, and went to look for Reid. She had lost him during the goodbyes and wanted to talk to him about the peace offering he seemed to be accepting. Her relief was palpable at his change of heart, even though she knew it wasn’t immediate forgiveness. It would take time to rebuild what had been broken. 

She walked outside to see if Reid had already left, gravel in the driveway crunching under her feet.

The scene before her brought tears to her eyes. 

Spencer had Prentiss in a bone-crushing hug that she was reciprocating with equal fervor. He was muttering something in her ear, and even from a distance JJ could see his shoulders heaving marginally. 

“I’m back, Reid. I promise,” Emily soothed. “I’m okay.” After a minute, Reid let go, brushing his face. He didn’t move though. He was searching her face for something, as if she was prone to evaporate at any second despite her being back for a week. Emily gently took one of his hands in hers, bringing it to her chest, slightly over to the left. 

“You feel that? I’m here.”

“I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye,” JJ heard Reid say, tears bubbling up his throat. 

“You won’t have to ever again,” Emily reassured, gripping his hand tightly. “Never again. I’m here.”

The two stayed silent for a moment as JJ felt like an imposter, watching the private scene from afar. 

“Hey,” Emily said, “I don’t have any plans tonight. Do you have that Solaris film? I have to assume that even you have the VHS squirreled away somewhere.”

Reid laughed, brushing away tears. “I uh…I actually have it on DVD. It came out in 1972, and the VHS videocassette format wasn’t introduced until 1977. But I would like that very much.”

Emily’s eyes went wide. “You own a DVD player?!” she asked in disbelief. “My, my, Doctor, you never cease to surprise me.”

“Same with you,” Reid muttered, his gaze on Emily as if he couldn’t look away. 

“Hey, you can do all the ogling you want once we get to your place and actually start the film,” Emily joked. “We’ve got a long night ahead of us, and I can’t wait.”

JJ watched as the two walked to their cars. She made eye contact with Reid at the last second, and for the first time in months, his eyes were filled with happy tears. He gave her a brief smile and wave before he got into his car, but not before stealing one more glance at Emily. 

JJ took a deep breath, and for the first time in months, the guilt dissipated from her heart. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you made it this far congrats! :D Thanks for putting up with...whatever ~tHaT~ was, lol. Drop a quick comment and let me know what you think. I promise the next chapter will be much happier. Speaking of which, I only really planned for this series to be a bunch of random one shots. If you have something you'd like to see addressed (especially in the ASD realm), I am very open to recommendations!! Drop a quick suggestion. Until next time, lovelies! <3


	7. Lists

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MMM still not sure if I like this final result, but here goes nothing. I realized updating last time on election day was a massive oversight and I apologize! I ADORE Blake, esp her relationship with Spencer (at some point I'll get around to writing the entirety of their leaving scene, but today is not that day.) 2 finals down, 4 to go, so excuse the lateness (and upcoming delay). Enjoy!!

Alex Blake finally felt at home with the team.

Maybe it took longer than it should have. Then again, she had always been wary of her self-presentation. During her thesis proposal many years ago, a man older than the books she had analyzed had told her she came off as “cold,” and should smile more.

She didn’t understand how being efficient, professional, and knowledgeable made her cold.

Her first week with the BAU had been nerve-wracking, but she was dedicated to maintaining a cool exterior. Maybe a bit too chilly, if you had asked Garcia. But when the first case she was active on was about linguistics she remembered why she had been invited. She had skills that really could be used in this field, and people who appreciated that. Finally, what she was teaching in a large classroom could be put to use to save lives.

Blake had met Spencer Reid a few years beforehand when they guest lectured together at Georgetown. The two had instantly connected. Blake felt the instant spark and excitement of meeting someone who could keep up with her intellectually. She secretly had a soft spot for the young doctor—here was this young kid, all gangly limbs and half-smiles, that somehow taught her something new everyday, with a humility she had never seen from any of her other academic peers. And him immediately latching onto her when she joined the team only made her feel more comfortable. Simply having one familiar face put her at ease.

It was one thing to hold a mutual respect for Spencer. It was another to experience the familiar maternal feeling she thought she had forgotten many years ago in a hospital room slowly creep up and engulf her completely.

She had initially pushed it back. Spencer had his own mother and would probably feel patronized. He was not a nine year old attached to tubes; he was an adult.

Still. Part of her couldn’t help it.

It was refreshing to be around someone that genuinely listened to her explanations about the roots and origins of certain words rather than just nod and wait for her to get to the point. Spencer listened intently and would often ask about an obscure phrase that she had mentioned days ago. They often came into Quantico a few minutes early on Mondays to talk about the weekend’s crossword puzzle, and met after work for museum tours whenever a special edition of a book was in town.

Those days were her favorite.

On Mondays, she would occasionally leave any of the crosswords that had stumped her over the weekend on her desk while she made her good morning rounds and got coffee. 

She would return to her desk to find a single sticky note on top not with the answer, but a Latin clue scribbled on top.

Spencer didn’t want to solve them for her—after all, where was the fun in that? He never wrote them in for her, but left her a single nudge in the right direction, trying not to smile from behind his divider when she returned with a huffed, “of course!”

After a particularly rough case, Blake found herself finishing her report, only to look up and see almost everyone had left. She shut off her lamp, closing the case file. It had been a tiring case with practically no sleep, and the second they had gotten back, everyone had trudged to their cars blearily. Even Hotch had left his reports for the next morning, stifling a yawn as he waved a goodbye.

Blake got up slowly, cracking her shoulder as she stretched. She hadn’t even noticed how quickly the time had passed. She started gathering up her bag when she noticed a tuft of fuzzy hair over the divider, illuminated by a single desk lamp.

She made her way over to Spencer’s desk, where he was writing something in a journal. His shoulders were stiff and foot bouncing as he scribbled line after line, his writing resembling lines teachers gave as punishment to be written repeatedly on a chalkboard. Every few seconds his hand came up to rub at his face, but his gaze remained determined.

“What’s that?” Blake asked, feeling guilty when he jumped in his seat at the intrusion.

“Phobias,” Reid responded, setting his pen down and rubbing a palm into his eye tiredly. “I like updating my list every so often.”

Blake peered down at the list, where line after line had a new phobia in alphabetical order. “I thought you had them all memorized.”

“I do,” Reid asserted. “But I occasionally find a new one to add. And I like rewriting them. It’s calming. Helps me think.”

“Huh,” Blake mused, pulling JJ’s chair over to sit down next to him. “May I?” she asked, carefully placing her hand up.

Reid handed over the thick notebook, carefully waiting for a reaction.

Blake skimmed the lines, thoroughly impressed with his depth. She hadn’t heard of half of these phobias, but many of them could be deduced just from the root.

“You said this is calming and helps you think, implying that there’s something on your mind. Do you want to talk about it?” Blake asked casually, flipping through some of the pages.

“No,” Spencer said quickly, but he wasn’t defensive. “I’m not particularly stressed about anything. Just decompressing a little. But thank you; I appreciate it.”

“Sure,” Blake nodded. She handed the notebook back to Spencer. “Have you ever studied any philias?”

“Not specifically,” Reid responded. “I mean, many of them have the same roots, so it’s pretty easy to switch between the two.”

“That is true,” Blake replied. “I initially didn’t recognize many on that list until I looked closer at the roots. Even then, I wasn’t aware someone could be afraid of so many things.”

“Mm, it’s pretty simplistic when you think about it. Just adding a new prefix or suffix to create a new word. I’ve wanted to start studying foreign words that don’t have a direct translation in English. That’s where things get truly exciting.”

“Hm, maybe I can help you with that one,” Blake noted. “I do know a few of those.”

Spencer nodded enthusiastically at the suggestion.

“Deal,” Blake said, smiling. “You can fill me in on some rare phobias, and I can find some interesting foreign words.” She stood up, rolling JJ’s chair back to its spot. “I’m gonna catch some sleep. James came home for weekend and has a three-hour head start on me. Make sure you get some too. Goodnight, Reid.”

“’Night, Alex,” Reid said, smiling softly. She gave him one final glance before walking out.

The next morning when Alex came into work, she immediately noticed the sticky note placed in the corner of her desk, ones that she had only become accustomed to on Monday mornings with a crossword.

“Gephyrophobia: Fear of bridges and tunnels. Derived from Greek γέφυρα (gephura), meaning ‘bridge.’”

Blake smiled, pocketing the note.

That’s how it started. Every morning she was greeted with a new phobia in the form of scrawled pen on a neon sticky note, and in turn she left one at some point before they all left for the night. She missed the routine during away cases, but it made it all the better to come back to Quantico. 

It was a source of joy for both of them—Spencer specifically left notes with the most obscure phobias he could find that challenged her lingual abilities. In return, she left philias and other foreign obscure words for him to toy with. 

She tried not to feel too pleased when she caught a glimpse of Spencer eagerly picking up a new sticky note she had left once they got back, mouthing the word to himself before sticking it to the inside cover of his leather journal, smiling to himself.

It had only gotten better from there. In was an unspoken ritual that they both enjoyed, each becoming both a student and a teacher. There was even a point where Garcia had to playfully chastise Reid for sneaking into her office to steal more sticky notes, stating that she could sense a disturbance. Reid had simply acted hurt in a mock defense, but was clandestinely pleased.

Blake smiled one night when she picked up a note on her desk. They had been away for four days; she was slightly shocked when she got the note the night they had returned rather than in the morning. Then again, it might have been in desperation to make up for lost time. Usually Reid left them after she had already left so that she could discover them in the morning, but he must have already left for the night.

“Arachibutyrophobia: Fear of being choked to death by peanut butter. More specifically, peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth. Derived from Greek ‘Arachi,’ meaning ‘ground nut’ and ‘butyro’ meaning ‘butter.’ No specific mouth or sticking mentioned, just how we interpret it. Isn’t that funny?”

Blake’s eyebrows furrowed when she saw there was something scribbled on the back side.

“Why can’t more people just say what they really mean?”

Blake frowned, pocketing the note as she walked out of the bullpen. Hotch was packing up his files, and they met up at the elevator.

“Any fun plans for the weekend?” Blake asked, pressing the button.

“Mm, besides sleep?” Hotch asked. “Beth and I are going to take Jack to the new aquarium. He’s going through a shark phase.”

Blake chuckled. “Fun! So no more dinosaurs?”

“Oh no, they’re still very present,” Hotch replied. “You should see my carpet—it’s quite the action figure set-up in the battle for Earth between the Megalodon and the T-rex.”

“Sounds like a blast,” Blake laughed.

“How about you?”

“It’s just me this weekend,” Blake admitted. “Looking forward to catching up on some reading. And watching last week’s ‘The Great British Bake-Off’ episode.”

Hotch quirked an eyebrow as they exited the elevator on the first floor. “Beth loves that show. I didn’t know you did.”

Blake nodded as they walk out of the doors. “Now that doesn’t mean I can bake. The concept is easy on paper, but not so kind in execution. But it’s fun to pretend. Have fun with Beth,” she said as they walked towards their cars. It was then that she caught her favorite genius out of the corner of her eye, walking a ways down the sidewalk in the opposite direction of his subway stop.

She got into her car and pulled up, rolling her window down. Spencer looked up from where his focus was concentrated on his feet below him.

“I believe the subway is the other way,” Blake said humorously, putting the car in park.

“Uh, there was a problem with an electrical line. I got an email about it. I was going to take the bus.”

“I can drive you home,” Blake offered, glancing at her watch. “The next bus doesn’t leave for another 20 minutes.”

“22,” Reid muttered. “Sure. If you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” Blake said, reaching over to unlock the door. Spencer climbed in, placing his messenger bag on top of his lap, looking not unlike a child with a lunchbox sitting on their lap.

Blake started the car, turning her radio down slightly.

“What did your note mean?” Blake asked, cutting right to the question. It had been knowing in the back of her mind for the past hour. “About people not just saying what they really mean?”

“Aren’t you a linguist?” Spencer smirked.

“10 letters,” she started, “1400 late Middle English, pertaining to the subject of a ruler, although we rarely use it in that form.”

“Subjective,” Spencer responded slowly, confusion spreading across his face. “Even Morgan knows that.”

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Blake retorted. “I know what your note meant factually. I’m asking what prompted that thought.”

“Oh. I was just frustrated.”

Blake gave Spencer a look, prompting him onwards.

Reid let out a huff, shifting slightly. “The officer in South Dakota said bear attacks only happen once in a blue moon. He got irritated when I corrected him. But I was right, seeing as how he had 5 ‘bear attacks’ that month when a blue moon only happens once every two or three years. I understand that he was just using a figure of speech, but in the moment I didn’t. I don’t understand why people insist on using figures of speech when they don’t even mean what they’re saying. I’ve gotten most idioms down.”

“Another list?” Blake asked.

Spencer nodded. “I just…Things would be so much easier if everyone said exactly what they meant. No wasted time asking ‘how are you’ as a greeting when you don’t really care. No idioms or turns of phrase when literal translations would do just fine. It wastes time and makes communicating so convoluted. And despite my growing list of idioms and common figures of speech, it’s a lot more difficult to interpret tone and body language in a split second.”

“I agree,” Blake conceded. “Then again, I would probably be out of a job if there weren’t unique dialectal phrases and hidden meanings behind language.”

“I know,” Reid replied, deflated. “I’m sure what I’m proposing sounds like a cold, robotic way of communicating. But it wouldn’t be as draining. Sometimes I get so tired trying to act like being the last one to catch a joke doesn’t bother me.”

Blake hummed in sympathy. “Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don’t understand half of what Garcia says.”

That prompted a chuckle from the younger man. “I’m not sure anyone does.”

“Are you doing anything this weekend?” Blake asked, turned towards him. “My only plan is reading. We could be a couple of seigneur-terraces if you’ve got the time.”

“French,” Reid immediately recognized. “Seigneur meaning feudal landowner. And terrace being obvious. I didn’t think you had a terrace.”

“Maybe for retirement,” Blake smiled. “It’s a French colloquial term for people who tell stories and relax in a coffee shop, but don’t end up spending a lot of money.”

“We both drink too much coffee to self-identify with that one,” Spencer said. “Every coffee shop I’ve ever been to loves me. Did you know they charge extra for flavored syrup? I’m better off just bringing my own sugar bowl.” He looked down, and subconsciously started fiddling with the leather strap of his bag. “That sounds really nice, but I’m actually going to visit my mom.”

Blake frowned. Normally Spencer was overjoyed when he got to visit his mom, but now he simply looked apprehensive.

“Is she doing alright?” Blake asked carefully.

“Yeah,” Spencer immediately replied, but it was a little too high-pitched to truly come off as believable. “Actually…no. Sorry, I just did what I was just complaining about. I mean, she’s okay. She’s just having more bad days. It’s hard to tell. Her good days are so much better, but her bad days are getting worse. I can’t tell if that’s an improvement; it used to be that every day wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad either. It just…was, a, sort of half-there static state. But now we’ve seemed to sacrifice that for peaks and valleys. I don’t know which is better.”

“I don’t think there is an objective better or worse,” Blake pondered. “It’s exactly that—it is what it is. It’s what you both make of it.”

“I guess,” Spencer replied. “It’s much more difficult when she doesn’t even realize it though.”

Blake grimaced, saddened to hear the tone that inundated Spencer’s words. She sensed that he wasn’t keen about continuing the conversation and knew her boundaries. It had already been a difficult week.

“Well,” she said casually, “I know she’ll be happy to see you, regardless of what kind of day she’s having. Let me know if you need anything or find yourself looking for something to do, God forbid we actually get the full weekend off.”

Spencer nodded, smiling. They pulled up to his apartment, and Blake watched him get out of the car.

“Thanks for the ride,” Spencer said. “Hope you have fun breaking your tsundoku habit.”

“My what?”

Spencer chuckled. “It’s Japanese—the act of buying lots of new books, only to let them pile up unread.”

Blake pretended to be hurt. “I’ve read most of what I have,” she defended. “But not quite as quickly as you. And I expect you to have a particularly interesting phobia for Monday. I’m thinking of starting my own list.”

Spencer beamed. “Oh! I will! I’d love to see what strategy you use. Most people prefer an alphabetical organization, but you strike me as someone who prefers a ‘organize by the time of reception’ approach. Have fun, and thanks again!” With a nod, he walked into his apartment. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From there time flew. The rapid onslaught of cases caused the days to blend together. Ironically, Blake and Spencer had given each other fitting gifts for Christmas. Blake gave him a new calligraphy pen—it was elegant with a good weight to it, something he could replace the ink cartridges for rather than going through ballpoint after ballpoint. In turn, Spencer had given Blake a beautiful, large leather notebook, quite similar to his own.

Spencer had been correct—she did fill her notebook chronologically. However, she also kept all the original sticky notes attached to the back cover, a sentiment she couldn’t let go of.

But as time passed, their notes became less about random tidbits, and more a fragmented conversation, a silent check-in with the other.

Before Reid’s date with Maeve, Blake had not been subtle in leaving her clue.

“ **Ophthalmophilia: The obsessive love of being stared or looked at. Derived from Greek ὀφθαλμός ( _ophthalmos)_ , meaning ‘eye.’ She’ll love you. You look great.” **

Blake would eventually regret writing that one, but nonetheless, it made its way into Spencer’s list, which had been rewritten ten times over as he grieved. 

Spencer’s first day back, it didn’t take a profiler to see he hadn’t been sleeping. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it. But Blake felt a swell of pride when he made an attempt through a scrawled note, something she had missed dearly during his absence.

“Clinophobia. A fear of going to bed. From Greek ‘Klinein’, meaning to bend, slope, or incline as during sleep. She keeps asking to dance. If I don’t sleep, I don’t have to tell her no.”

It didn’t take a genius to know who Reid to was referring to.

Blake gave a small smile as she left her response, with a box of sleepytime tea next to the note.

“ **Bilita Mpash: Batnu. The lingering bliss left by a beautiful dream when you’ve woken up. You won’t find closure or a good memory of her unless you allow yourself to rest. She’s not angry with you. You need to let her know you aren’t angry with her either. Dance.”**

And whether it had been that, or a later conversation with Rossi, Reid came back looking restful, and if she could be so daring, at peace.

Two weeks passed by. Blake noticed Spencer had been using the same leather notebook, a sharp contrast to the multiple he had been filling. Fewer lists seemed to indicate less stress, but either way, the notes between the two continued.

Blake had overheard Spencer’s argument with Hotch after the Peter Harper case, noting the agitation he seemed to be turning inwards rather than outwards.

Peter Harper had slit his throat. It was a shocking scene for any profile, let alone one that felt directly responsible for the action. Blake wouldn’t lie; she was shocked with Spencer’s blunt honesty, rather than trying to talk him down.

_“Listen, I know exactly what it’s like. Right now is the part where I’m supposed to lie to you, tell you that everything’s going to be okay and that somehow we can help you, but the fact of the matter is, Peter, I don’t know if we can. There might not be any form of therapy that ever takes these urges away. But that doesn’t mean you stop trying. Peter, no matter what happens, you have to keep trying. I know it’s not what you want to hear, but at least it’s the truth.”_

_“I told a perfect lie and that didn’t work, so this time, in the hopes of saving someone’s life, I tried something different.”_

She left her own note after Spencer had stormed out

**“Shikata ga nai: Japanese—it cannot be helped; nothing could have been done about it. I (secretly) disagree with Hotch. Harper had already decided his fate regardless of any sort of intervention. You aren’t wrong for telling the truth as opposed to a lie. We work with psychopaths. You did not kill him.”**

And then James made a proposition. And then Blake, the star linguist, was left tongue tied. Her conversation with Spencer in the car helped, but it was his note afterwards that solidified her decision.

“Decidophobia: A fear of making deicisons. ‘De-cido’, Latin, meaning ‘to cut-off’ or end a discussion. I know that’s a rather easy one, but just know you’ll make the right decision, no matter the outcome. You will be missed, but we can’t all be married to our work.”

The next morning when she announced she would be staying, Spencer’s smile could have lit up the room as she excitedly jumped from his seat.

Two cases later, Blake saw a new leather notebook. Normally Spencer kept his rewriting for at home, at the office after people had left, or occasionally on the plane.

She had never seen it during a case.

She and Hotch had just been talking to the local police chief, and walked into their assigned room to see Reid halfway hunched over his notebook, words flying from his pen almost faster than seemed possible. The files he had been reading lay scattered all around him.

“Reid, where are you on the…”

“Already read them. All of them are clean,” Reid interrupted, not lifting his head. His hand continued to glide across the page. It took Blake a moment to register the slight red-rimming around his eyes, and the leg bouncing under the table.

Hotch took in the scene critically, his eyebrows relaxing slightly. He approached Reid in a few rapid steps, but far enough to maintain a comfortable distance.

“Reid, is this relevant?”

“I need to,” Reid said, his voice low and prickly. “Just a few minutes.” Hotch seemed to accept his answer, giving him a final concerned look that the younger man didn’t see.

“Alright. I’m going to check in with the others at the Reynold’s house. Blake, can you stay here and help with the geographical profile?”

Blake nodded, understanding the words Hotch didn’t say. _See what’s wrong._

Blake walked over to the board, pretending to contemplate the map as Hotch left. To be quite honest, she was what James liked to call ‘directionally-challenged’, feeling lucky Reid could handle that aspect of the cases.

“I won’t get nearly as much out of this map as you will. Do you need me to stay in here or leave?” Blake asked nonchalantly. Reid remained silent for a moment before capping his pen, gently setting it down with a satisfying ‘thud.’

“Athazagoraphobia,” he recited, clearing his throat coarsely. “The fear of being forgotten. No specific roots, although perhaps mistranslated from the Greek ‘lathanó’ meaning ‘to escape unnoticed’, but the etymology is shaky at best.”

Blake turned around slowly. “That it is. No specific root leaves me wondering why you chose that word, and why now,” she observed.

Reid took a deep breath before fishing through his messenger bag. He gently pulled out a letter and placed it on the table. Blake walked over and took the letter, seeing the presentation as permission.

She recognized the handwriting immediately—Reid’s mother. She had seen the neat cursive countless times as Reid had thrust letters into Blake’s hands, excitedly ranting about a literary reference she had made.

Blake looked down at the crumpled note. It started off with the general day-to-day items, and for a moment, she was confused at what had made Reid upset.

Yet about halfway through, Blake felt her stomach clench. Diana’s handwriting devolved into an unintelligible scrawl that haphazardly fell off the page, but from what she could garner, there was a suggestion that JJ’s son was a government plant.

Blake let out a deep breath, placing the letter back in front of Reid.

“Spencer, I’m so sorry.”

“She was doing well,” Reid breathed. “When I was there, she was doing so well.”

“Progress isn’t linear,” Blake ventured.

“I don’t know how to write her back. I usually write her a letter every day, every other day if I’m not home. But I don’t know how to address this.” Reid ran a shaky hand through his hair. “How do I say, ‘Hi Mom, JJ’s son isn’t a secret agent, it’s just a paranoid delusion, but hope you’re doing well!’”

“You don’t,” Blake responded, hoping he would appreciate her straightforwardness at the moment. “Chances are she won’t even remember writing it. I’m sure it was just a bad day. Maybe she forgot her meds.”

“I hope,” Spencer said. “It wouldn’t be the first time she spit out her lithium. So much for honesty, huh?”

“I think the magic of words lies in the ability of omission,” Blake said carefully. “You don’t have to be direct.”

Spencer nodded, chewing over her words as he placed his leather journal back and letter back into his bag. 

“Do you mind if…I’d just like to leave the subject alone until the case is over. I’ll get too wrapped up in it if I keep discussing it.”

“Of course,” Blake responded, watching as Reid uncurled from his position in his chair. “I think I’m in dire need of some coffee. Want me to grab you a pot?”

“Yes please,” Spencer said, standing next to her and fixing his eyes on the board. He had completely missed the pot comment…or he really did want her to bring the entire pot. Both were equally feasible.

She ran her hand comfortingly over his shoulder as she left, shocked when he leaned into the touch ever-so-slightly.

When they got back to headquarters that night, she glanced at Spencer as he caught sight of the note she had left an hour previously.

**“Wabi-Sabi: world view centered on acceptance of transience through imperfection, alt. appreciating beauty in the imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete. Japanese (** **侘寂). I’m sure you already knew this one. But one bad day does not change her love for you. Love is, by it’s very nature and definition, unconditional.”**

She quietly slipped out when his eyes began to well up as he pulled out his leather journal, took off his jacket, and settled down for what she was sure would be a long night.

The weekend passed without much fuss. Blake had been steadily making her way through what Spencer had correctly assumed were many unread books. She was surprised when he came in just as early as she had, carrying two copies of the week’s newspaper and a stopwatch.

“Have you done this weekend’s crossword?” He asked excitedly, sitting down on JJ’s desk with little reservation.

“I have not,” Blake said, placing her jacket on her chair.

“Fantastic,” Reid responded, putting the stopwatch around his neck. “I didn’t think so. I expected a text about 79 down. Wanna give it a go? We still have at least 20 minutes before JJ has roundtable ready.”

“Why not?” Blake asked, smiling when Spencer already had a cup of coffee ready for her, handing it to her so excitedly he almost spilt it.

“Ready?” He asked, finger hovering over the button impatiently in one hand, a pen in the other.

“Shoot,” Blake responded, leaning over with her elbows on her knees in a ready stance.

“1 across, 7 letters, ‘more likely to exhibit spiteful behavior.’”

“Hateful?” Blake quickly shot, only to meet Reid’s smug grin. “No, too easy. Spiteful…petty…but seven letters and ‘more likely’, so pettier.”

“3 across, 4 letters, place mentioned in many publications by the Sentencing Project.”

“Jail. Too easy.”

“7 across, 6 letters, ‘Darjeeling pouch.’”

“Teabag.”

“11 across, 6 letters. ‘subjects of Facebook alerts,’” Spencer said, wrinkling his nose slightly.

“Events,” Blake chuckled. “Assuming you had to work around that one?”

“Trying a new bakery isn’t worthy of the word ‘event’ or a photo,” Spencer said begrudgingly. “13 across, 7 letters. ‘Regarding that matter.’”

Blake frowned. “Thereby?” Seeing Spencer’s face, she quickly corrected herself. “Therein.”

And so they went on for 8 minutes and 2 seconds, before they came to dreaded 79 down.

Blake finished off her coffee. “You know I’m stuck. And I can’t get the across one either. What was the across in the middle?”

“84 across. 4 letters. Starting with b, ‘litmus test substance’.”

“You know I barely scraped by in my chemistry class,” Blake whined. “It never made sense. There are far too few words in chemistry, and the names of the different configurations don’t even make sense.”

“Surely you have to know enough to get this one,” Reid exclaimed. “Four letters with a B!”

“Ball, bias, bulb, burn…”

She chuckled as Spencer fidgeted frustratedly, looking like he was going to burst. “Come on! Acid and…”

“Base,” Blake exclaimed. “God, that was foolish. What did 79 down end up being?”

“Hal,” Reid said. “ ‘Sparks on a TV set.’ I thought maybe it was referring a Hardware Abstraction System. Turns out it’s the name of an actor. Either way, same result. And at 8 minutes and 17 seconds, not quite your best performance.”

Despite his playful criticism, Reid was smiling right as Rossi walked in.

“Happy Wednesday, my nerds,” he grumbled, eyeing where Spencer’s sat on the desk.

“Someone’s got a bit of hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia,” Spencer protested, hopping off the desk as he handed Blake the paper.

“A what?” Rossi asked, blinking slowly.

“A—”

“Fear of long words,” Blake responded, accidentally interrupting Reid.

“Looks like I’ve ruined the word of the day,” Spencer said, slightly astonished yet disappointed.

“Well, I’m more than happy to stay out of your ongoing long-word club,” Rossi said. “What? You think I haven’t noticed you two passing notes like 12 year olds? You aren’t very…” Rossi counted under his breath, extending his fingers, “6 letters, starting with s.”

“Secret,” Reid blurted.

“Subtle,” Blake said at the same time.

Rossi’s eyebrows raised. “And a point for Blake. Come on Boy Wonder, you need to step up your vocabulary. Soon enough Morgan will be beating you. We’ve got a case, come on you two.”

Blake followed Rossi to the round table, chuckling as Spencer muttered under his breath.

“Subtle? I didn’t think he even knew what the word meant. And I’ve read his books.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?? My sleep-deprived brain would love to hear ANYTHING you all have to say. Will finish finals and go back home before another update, but never fear, it will (soon-ish) be here. That being said 1.) let me know if there's anything you would like to see addressed specifically :D 2.) I love you all so much and your feedback/ support is absolute chef's kiss 3.) As the holidays approach please wear your masks and stay safe!! Until next time!! <3


	8. Tags and Textures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHEM sorry. It's been a helluva month--finals, driving back home for break, dental school apps, family stuff, etc. Good news? Got my lil sis into CM after years of persuading. Bad news? She tested positive the night after we binged the first few. So suffice to say between getting ready for my last semester of undergrad and that, sorry it's taken so long. Hopefully this makes ya smile, despite being short! Your comments have been so sweet and I adore you all so much. <3

"Tara, do you use a humidifier?" Reid asked, head poking over the desk divider. 

Tara Lewis looked up from where she had just finished applying lotion to her hands. She smiled at the use of her first name. Everyone almost insisted on using last names, but it seemed with the elusive Peter Lewis on everyone's minds, Reid had chosen to use her familiar name. 

"At home or work?" Tara asked, capping her lotion and placing it back on her desk. "I think you would notice if I had a little constant mist machine three feet from you. But yes, I do have a humidifier at home. Mind if I ask why?"

"You seem to use lotion a lot," Reid said bluntly. "In fact, more than a lot. Approximately once every hour that you're at your desk. That's more than Garcia, and she’s already a statistical outlier. Sorry, not that I've been actively keeping track of your personal lotion habits. Can't help it."

"Does it bother you?" Tara asked, concern masking her features, moving to put the lotion away.

"No, no, not at all," Reid responded quickly, putting her at ease. He wrinkled his nose. "At least yours isn’t scented. Garcia has a new scent almost every day, and I feel bad when I turn it down, but I can’t stand the strong smell lingering on my hands for hours. She’s always trying to pull me with her to….” Reid hesitated. “I think it’s Bath Bath and Beyond?”

"Bath and Body Works," Tara gently corrected, chuckling. "She’s already pulled Prentiss and me with her, but I rarely buy anything except candles. Scented lotion is awful for your skin."

"I know, that artificial scent is nearly impossible to achieve without some form of alcohol or diethyl phthalate, which is actually a mild neurotoxin. Not to mention the parabens! It's ironic that so many of the ingredients that make lotion attractive only end up drying out the skin even more."

Tara hummed in agreement. "Exactly. I'm sure dermatologists love you."

"I wouldn't know," Reid said offhandedly.

“Why does it not surprise me that our genius also has perfect skin?” Tara said exasperatedly. 

“Well I didn’t start getting acne until I was working on my second Ph.D., and it didn’t last long after I figured out how to make my own adapalene gel,” Reid commented. “Only took a few months, and no one else was in the chemistry lab.”

Tara leaned back in her chair, mouth agape. “I hate to say it Doctor Reid, but your chemistry talents may be wasted here,” she joked. “You could outsell half of the pharmaceutical companies I’ve spent a pretty penny on.”

“Really?” Reid asked curiously.

"I've always had rather dry skin," Tara admitted. "Terrible eczema as a child that I never truly grew out of, and the winter seems to exacerbate it. Plus my acne as a teenager and young adult was horrific."

“No way,” Reid scoffed. “You have wonderful skin.”

Before Tara could thank him, he rapidly continued, scanning her face. 

“Barely any scarring, no hypopigmentation, no signs of dermabrasion; I can’t even see any signs of long-term Accutane usage….”

Before he could potentially bring back distressing images she remembers seeing on the wall of her dermatologist’s office, Tara decided to gently interrupt, taking the compliment with a smile. 

“Thank you, Reid. Seventeen-year-old me would never imagine anyone complimenting my skin.” She caught him eyeing the lotion she had previously set on her desk. “Would you like some?” 

"No," Reid responded immediately, clutching his hands. "I'm sure it's better than Garcia's, I just don't like the way it feels on my skin. I guess I was just wondering if the lotion was a habit or because of dry skin. But it seems I have my answer.”

"Fair enough," Tara said, voice evolving into a chuckle as Reid abruptly ducked his head back down to his own desk. Apparently, that had answered the young doctor's question.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tara inhaled deeply, relishing the scent of fresh coffee. Reid walked over with his mug, hair slightly askew, and a cardigan covering a shirt that required Tara to do a double-take. 

Despite the cardigan doing a decent job of covering the thinner shirt below, it was not large enough to hide the fact that Reid's dress shirt was inside out. 

"Long night?" Tara asked, trying not to smile into her cup. As much as the team loved to joke about Reid's obscure late nights (reading, playing chess, or researching the strangest things to satisfy his itching curiosity), she knew that's probably exactly what happened. 

Reid nodded, reaching for the coffee pot as he stifled a yawn. "I got caught up in a botany book and suddenly it was morning. What exactly gave me away?”

Tara's eyes flew to his chest. Reid looked puzzled for a moment before he looked down, his face flushing slightly. 

"Oh. I guess I never switched it back."

"Switched it back?"

Reid shifted his weight onto his opposite foot. "I switched my shirt inside-out earlier this morning.”

"Any particular reason?" Tara asked. She had assumed it was a tired oversight rather than intentional. 

"The seams were bothering me," Reid said quietly, looking around the bullpen. Once he was assured that no one was privy to their conversation, he returned his gaze to Tara. "I love my sweaters, but if I could have it my way, I would wear a hooded sweatshirt every day. No stiff seams.”

“You know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen in you a hoodie,” Tara commented, taking a sip of coffee. 

“Not exactly work appropriate,” Reid responded sadly. “It’s usually okay, but sometimes my dress shirts, especially newer ones, feel too scratchy or staticky. It gets distracting.”

“I understand that one,” Tara commiserated, raising her mug in a mock toast. “What do you think the odds are that Hotch allows casual Fridays?”

Reid cocked his head. “Did you want a real statistic?”

“Do you have one?” Tara joked. “I assumed the answer would be .0001 percent.”

“I was going to say flat-out zero.”

Tara snickered. “Alright then, you’ve got me there.” She paused for a moment. “Do you use fabric softener? Or dryer balls?”

Reid’s brows furrowed. “Actually…no. I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that. One of my neighbors has those plastic dryer balls, but they make quite a bit of noise. And from what I understand, a lot of them contain polyvinyl chloride, which isn’t exactly fantastic for skin or the environment.”

“They make wool ones,” Tara helpfully supplied. “I can’t use most fabric softeners because they irritate my skin, but wool dryer balls have been a lifesaver. But if you find a good one, fabric softener would totally change your stiff-shirt game. Can’t exactly get rid of the seams, but it can make it less stiff and staticky.” 

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind,” Reid said. He gave a brief nod before he turned on his heel to place his mug on his desk. He quickly walked to the bathroom, his long legs carrying him in a few rapid steps. 

Tara walked over to her own desk, pulling out a few files that had been sitting at the bottom of her desk drawer for far too long. There was no case so far, but the work never really ended. Uncapping her pen, she opened the file, scanning over her previous notes before beginning to fill in a few details. 

When she looked back up, Reid was returning to his desk, shirt right-side-out. He shifted his neck slightly as he sat back down. 

“Anything from Garcia yet?” He asked, rubbing a hand under his shirt collar. 

“Nope,” Tara said, popping her lips. “I guess it’s a good thing if we’re out of work for a little bit. That, hopefully, means things are calm on the crazy serial killer front.”

Reid nodded absentmindedly, eyeing his own files before sitting down. 

They all worked in silence for a bit, the bullpen filled with the beeping of fax machines and rustling papers. After half an hour, JJ walked towards the two. Reid’s head snapped up, similar to a dog’s ears perking at a new sound. 

JJ shook her head when catching his eager gaze. “Nothing yet. Don’t look so disappointed,” she teased, seeing Reid deflate a little bit. Evidently, it wasn’t the answer he was looking for. 

“I’m bored,” Reid muttered, annoyance piercing his tone as his hand flew up back behind his neck. 

“I’m sure you can do Rossi’s files if you’re really looking for something to do,” Tara mused. 

JJ, eyeing Reid, made a movement towards his shirt collar, before subtly retracting her arms. “Spence, your shirt tag is sticking out.”

“Oh.” Reid didn’t seem very surprised but begrudgingly tucked his shirt tag away from view, face pinched.

Seeing that the two in the bullpen weren’t having any more fun than she was a few desks down, JJ let out a huff. “Okay, well I’m off to bother Garcia. Feel free to join,” she announced, getting up slowly before disappearing from view.

Tara finished the last few lines of her file, reaching for her coffee cup. She frowned when she saw it was empty. Despite time ticking slowly, her desire for caffeine had not. She got up, making her way back to the coffee pot as she stretched her legs. She saw Reid leap up out of the corner of her eye, beelining after her. Despite not sleeping last night, Reid had seemed rather jittery all day. 

“Can I top you up?” she asked, noticing the empty mug in his hand. 

“Please,” Reid accepted, holding his mug out. He watched her carefully before frowning. “You only filled it up three-fourths of the way.” 

“I left you room to ‘doctor’ it up,” Tara explained, smirking at her own pun. 

The corner of Reid’s twitched upwards in understanding. He moved towards the counter to add his own cream and sugar excitedly. Reid’s coffee ritual mimicked that of an elaborate chemistry experiment, and it was a ceremony she could not begin to understand or repeat. She made a motion to return to her desk before being stopped. 

“Tara?”

“What’s up?” she asked, turning back around. Reid had apparently finished his ritual, setting his mug carefully back on the counter. He ran a hand up to his neck, looking at the ground. 

“I actually have a favor to ask.”

“Shoot,” she instantly replied. Despite his self-perceived awkwardness, Reid had usually been semi-assured around her. That was not the current sight in front of her. Spencer looked uneasy, but it was more than just caffeine jitters. 

“Could you cut off the tag on my collar?” Reid asked awkwardly, still declining eye contact. 

“Sure,” Tara replied. To be honest, she had been expecting something far more serious. “Actually, I think I can do you one better. Follow me.”

Reid followed Tara hesitantly back to her desk. She rustled around in her desk drawers, finally pulling out a travel sewing kit. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.” 

Reid sat in his chair, looking at Tara apprehensively as she made her way around to his desk, peering at the tag just under his collar. 

“You know, if you can take the shirt off for a few minutes, I can actually remove the seams and just pull it out instead of cutting it. It’s less scratchy that way. Bathroom?”

Reid nodded quickly, getting up from his seat. “Do you know how many tags I’ve tried to cut off, only to make it worse?” he asked, relief filling his voice at her suggestion. 

“Trust me when I say I do,” Tara responded, following Reid into the bathroom, sewing kit in hand. Reid looked puzzled as she followed him in. 

“You don’t think…”

“What, you think those men scare me?” Tara scoffed, setting the kit on the counter. 

Reid gave her a knowing glance. “With the people we deal with every day? I suppose not.” He started removing his shirt. Tara felt a small sense of relief to see that he had a t-shirt on underneath. Nudity did not make her uncomfortable, but she assumed the same did not apply to her colleague. 

“Did you know clothing tags are actually required by the Federal Trade Commission due to the Textile and Wool Acts?” Reid asked, taking off his outer shirt and handing it to Tara. “Any material that makes up five percent of a garment must be listed, excluding any decoration or trimming that makes up less than fifteen percent.” 

“Really?” Tara asked, taking the shirt and pulling out a needle from her sewing kit. 

“Not just that,” Reid continued, “Labels must also include country of origin, company registration number, and care instructions.”

Tara held the shirt collar up close to her face, sliding the needle underneath the first stitch. “I’ve never used a label for any information except for size and whether I can throw it in my dryer. The second I’ve bought it, it gets removed.” 

“I’m usually pretty good at removing labels as soon as I get a shirt,” Reid asserted. “I tried removing it this morning, but…”

Tara removed her gaze from her current task. “But what?”

“Scratched myself with the scissors,” Reid mumbled, subconsciously running a hand over the back of his neck. “It’s not bad, but then the tag just irritated it more, and I hate tags in the first place, so it just became unbearable.”

“I totally understand,” Tara reassured. “Plus cutting them out can just make it worse like you said, leaving that annoying jagged edge or a thick lump. You want me to show you what I’m doing, so you can remove them next time?”

Reid instantly appeared behind her, eagerly watching her hands. “I never learned how to sew, and my hand-eye coordination is subpar at best.”

“It gets better with practice,” Tara encouraged. “My mother got bored during all her chemo treatments, so she became an expert at sewing, knitting, and everything in-between. I was dreadful at first, but the practice eventually helped me with delicate car parts. I’m still nowhere where my mother was. Really I just use the needle to get under the original stitches—it’s much easier than scissors, and no string required.” Tara looked at Reid, who was watching with hawk-like intensity. She could already see him mentally recording every motion she was making as his fingers twitched. “Would you like to try?”

Reid looked apprehensive but eventually nodded. Tara carefully handed over his shirt and needle. She smiled as Reid made an attempt to carefully recreate her movements, fingers fumbling slightly. 

“I think I just made the stitch tighter,” Reid confessed, his brow furrowed in irritation.

“If you put the needle closer to the opposite side of the loop, it loosens the stitch instead of tightening it,” Tara supplied helpfully. Reid readjusted the needle, and smiled when the stitch came undone with a small huff of satisfaction. 

“There you go,” she said, watching him carefully undo the rest. She frowned slightly when she caught sight of his lower neck. There was a small cut visible, and the surrounding area was red, clearly irritated. It was enough to make her shudder; she couldn’t imagine how Reid had been able to focus all morning. Suddenly his agitation made sense. 

Reid beamed when the last stitch came undone, tag coming off easily. Tara reached over to remove the string, also grabbing the fallen tag to throw away. Spencer excitedly put the shirt back on, relief palpable as his shoulders sagged. 

“Thank you,” he said, briefly shutting his eyes in satisfaction. 

“Anytime,” Tara said, smiling back. It was stunning how such a small alteration had changed his demeanor. 

Reid opened his eyes and began buttoning his dress shirt. “I know exactly what I’m doing for the rest of my evening, and perhaps early afternoon, assuming we don’t get a case.”

“Do you have a sewing kit, or want to borrow mine?” Tara asked perceptively. 

“I don’t own one if you wouldn’t mind letting me borrow yours,” Reid said. He paused for a moment. “Actually, I might need it for more than one night. I can finally remove the half-tags that I’ve tried, and failed, to cut off. I have a lot of shirts to go through, and my hand-eye coordination doesn’t last nearly as long as my attention span.” 

“Not a problem,” Tara responded. They walked out of the bathroom, Tara happy and Reid smiling, fiddling with the sewing kit in hand rather than the back of his neck. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Damn,” Tara muttered, eyes sweeping the last room of the house. “House is clear!” she shouted down to Reid, who was somewhere on the main level. 

“Same here!” He shouted back, climbing the stairs. His eyes scanned the room out of habit. “There was a phone plugged in the kitchen-- that must have been the number Garcia was tracking.”

“They set a plant,” Tara responded, frustrated. “Either our guy hasn’t been home in a while, or doesn’t really live here.”

Reid looked around the room again. “Back to base?”

“I guess,” Tara replied. “And back to square one. We’ve gotta rethink this profile, try to figure out where he would go. We originally profiled that he wouldn’t skip town, but that clearly isn’t the case.”

Reid nodded, hurriedly leaving the room and heading back down the stairs. Tara frowned. While the house wasn’t in great shape, Reid seemed on-edge and very eager to leave. She had expected him to go through the house again, looking for any signs of their UNSUB. 

Tara followed him back down the stairs, getting into the standard-issue black SUV. She removed her vest before getting in; it was uncomfortable enough to wear on its own, let alone on a long car ride.

She was shocked when Reid kept his vest on as he slid into the passenger seat, clearly irritated that the profile hadn’t been correct. He rested his skull back against the headrest, eyes slipping shut for a moment. 

“You don’t want to take off your vest?” Tara asked, turning the keys in the ignition. 

“Can I tell you something kind of absurd?” 

“Nothing will be more absurd than this case,” Tara said. They had been working this case for three days, and it was beginning to run cold. Now everyone, their team as well as the local police force, was becoming antsy and frustrated. 

“I like the way the vest feels,” Reid responded, eyes still shut. “It depends on the day, but typically I find it comforting. It’s a good weight.”

“I will admit, I think you are the first agent that feels that way,” Tara said. “I associate it with being shot at. Or tackled.” She looked over at him. He didn’t look ill, but his behavior wasn’t typical of their usual genius. She had anticipated the car ride to be filled with more profiles or theories. “Are you feeling alright?”

Reid nodded, raising his head and opening his eyes. “Just feeling a little buzzy.”

In an attempt not to make him feel uncomfortable, Tara simply nodded despite her confusion. She guessed it was more mental than physical, but she also knew how certain textures could be perceived as pain or be as annoying as literal splinters. Spencer was wearing a shirt he had worn many times before; Tara was going to go with her mental hypothesis. She was no stranger to the magic that physical remedies could serve for anxiety or unease. 

She pondered her next question for a moment. “Do you use any sort of compression vest or weighted blanket?”

“I looked into a compression vest, actually,” Reid admitted. “But they’re too bulky and hot for me to wear all the time.” 

Tara took a deep breath. “I cannot believe I’m asking this, but do you know what spandex is?”

“Of course.”

“Really?” Tara asked, almost incredulously. 

“I mean, I know it’s a synthetic fabric, polyether-polyurea copolymer more specifically. It actually was created in Germany at the end of World War II when Farben transferred to DuPont in America,” Reid explained, as if he was discussing the weather. 

“I’m impressed,” Tara said slowly. That was the last answer she had expected. 

“It was actually quite the chemical construction for its time,” Reid persisted, “A whole new world for chain extension reactions and extrusion. It’s completely synthetic, and the creation of the prepolymer is something I studied extensively.” 

“Interesting. Have you ever considered it?”

“Spandex?” Reid asked, clearly perplexed. “From my understanding, it’s most commonly used in yoga pants, which isn’t exactly my style.”

“I’m sure Garcia would pay good money to see that,” Tara chuckled. “I was referring to undershirts. I own a few spandex-type tops that are meant for working out, but also some tank tops as under-shirts. They’re great in all seasons—they make some that are meant for cool weather, and some specifically for hot.”

Reid’s face dawned in realization. “I was wondering why you never seem to get cold.”

“Slow down for me, doc. You went from point A to point C,” Tara explained. “What’s the point B that I’m missing?”

“You always seem to wear polyester or rayon shirts,” Reid replied. “Or just shirts that are very…wispy. I was wondering why you never got cold.”

“Ah. Typically those shirts don’t have a lot of seams and don’t irritate my skin. But yes, they tend to be pretty thin, so I wear warm tank tops underneath, typically spandex or something similar. But if you were interested, it gives a light but nice compression. It would be comparable to wearing a t-shirt under a dress shirt.”

“Actually, that’s something I’m very interested in,” Reid said slowly, considering her suggestion. “Are they only sleeveless?”

“They come in any type or color you want,” Tara explained, “not that anyone would be able to see them. Tank, short-sleeve, or long sleeve.”

Reid smiled. “I like long sleeves. I hate when my t-shirt is short-sleeved, but then my dress shirt is long-sleeved. The texture should all be the same!”

“Exactly why I wear my ‘wispy’ shirts,” Tara said. “Between you and me, I cannot stand wool. I love the dryer balls, but actual wool makes my skin so irritated, which then makes me irritated.”

“Well, you have never appeared that way. Thank you….for the advice, and for not laughing.”

“I would never laugh,” Tara said seriously, looking over to Reid. She knew he was self-conscious about being perceived as a child, but was saddened to see it affected him expressing simple yet legitimate feelings. “I just figured it would be more comfortable than a bullet-proof vest.”

Reid nodded gratefully, fiddling with the straps of the vest. They drove in silence for a minute before Reid cocked his head. “Where would I get something like that?”

“Dick’s,” Tara said casually, checking her mirror before turning. 

“What!?”

“Crap, Dick’s Sporting Goods. It’s the name of an athletic store,” Tara elaborated, laughing. 

“Oh thank God,” Reid mumbled, adjusting his collar as they pulled up to the precinct. “And where would that….”

“Want to go with me this weekend?” Tara asked, already knowing his next question. “I need some new tennis shoes.”

“I would like that a lot,” Reid responded, taking off his vest as they parked. “But I didn’t know you played tennis.”

“Not ‘tennis’ tennis shoes. Sneakers,” Tara chuckled. “Now, let’s go catch this guy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

When Tara walked into the office, she was shocked to see a small, plastic cactus on her desk. 

Upon closer examination, she realized it wasn’t only a small, plastic cactus. 

It was a small, plastic cactus humidifier, small water reservoir already filled. 

She flipped on the switch, smiling as it emitted a small yet steady flow of mist. 

In quite the role reversal, Tara popped her head over the divider. She smiled when she saw the corner of an UnderArmor compression shirt peeking underneath Reid’s collar. 

“How’s it feel?” Tara asked quietly. It was his first day wearing one at work, and while she didn’t want to make a big deal out of the occurrence, she was genuinely curious. 

“I love it,” Reid grinned, moving his arms. “Much subtler than the vest, and the texture is fantastic.”

“Speaking of fantastic, do you remember what you asked me on Wednesday morning?” Tara asked, secretly thrilled to see him so comfortable.

“’Tara, do you use a humidifier?’” Reid recited, trying not to smirk. 

“Well today I can tell you yes, and I use one that is absolutely fantastic. Thank you, Spencer. I love it,” she replied. “Now I won’t have to annoy you with my lotion cap every hour.”

“Garcia helped me pick it out,” Spencer said sheepishly, faintly rubbing his thumb along the sleeve of the long compression shirt just underneath his dress shirt. “She initially wanted to get one that was shaped like a cat and flashed different colors. I just wanted to thank you for all the help. And your lotion doesn’t bother me, by the way.”

“Well, between you and I, I like this one more,” Tara confided quietly, looking back at the cute cactus. “I’m not usually one for keeping secrets, but don’t tell Garcia.”

“I won’t say a word. But don’t worry, Garcia decided to buy the cat one for herself anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All questions, comments, and concerns welcomed (also on tumblr @cooliocoulson)! As per usual, if there's anything you are dying to see, let me know! Only a few ideas left and I thrive on your sweet sweet feedback. Hopefully will update soon since I'm only taking one winter class. (Who would take 158 credits when you only need 128 to graduate?!?!?! me. crap. i just really like bio/psyc and lost track, wohoo!) much love <3


	9. Food Aversion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, sorry for the lack of updates. Been kinda (a lotta) crazy at home and just hit a bit of a mental slump and blegh. But I’m baaaack and hopefully you’ll enjoy this slightly-longer-than-usual chapter! I’ve been waiting to write Luke for so long; hopefully this does him justice! (I just realized I had none of the team members after Blake tagged??? How could I?)
> 
> Warnings—chapter focuses on food aversion, and BRIEF indirect reference to EDs (an incorrect assumption). I truly don’t think it should be a problem because nothing is graphic, but if you are unsure, just shoot me a message at CoolioCoulson on Tumblr and I would be happy to answer any questions! Want y'all taking care of yourselves.

Luke Alvez noticed things.

Obviously that came with the territory of being on a team of profilers. That was expected.

But being the “New Guy” on a team with a deeply established dynamic meant he had to put extra effort into noticing things that the others had known for years. Surprisingly, it wasn’t as difficult as he had assumed.

He immediately picked up on smaller things, mostly physical tells each of the members had. The left side of Rossi’s face would twitch upwards just slightly when he was annoyed and trying to hold back a sassy remark. Emily’s nail-biting was too easy. Tara generally liked talking to the team, but when she was upset or a case hit a little too close to home, she would put in headphones and close her eyes on the jet. It didn’t happen often. JJ would subtly play with the ends of her hair when she was preoccupied, or her necklace if she needed comfort. Matt would clench his jaw when aggravated, and Luke was honestly surprised his teeth hadn’t been ground to a stub.

Garcia….well, Garcia was another creature all together.

It took Luke approximately one day to realize that she was merely messing with him. Behind Garcia’s feisty, defensive, and taunting exterior, Luke knew deep down she was a softy. He understood that she didn’t like change and was just hazing him because she missed Morgan. From what he had heard, he couldn’t really blame her. Morgan had quite the reputation, and a relationship with Garcia Luke would never be able to achieve. While he would never tell her, she was actually the easiest to read. And to be quite honest, it was refreshing. With such a grim job, it was comforting to come back to someone that could show their emotions uninhibited—smiling at the joyful, being unapologetically upset at the devastating, and everything in between. The colorful clothes didn’t hurt either.

He also noticed that Garcia seemed to feed the entire team.

And more specifically, Garcia seemed to feed Reid constantly.

Rossi was the one that usually provided the team with actual sustenance, but Garcia single-handedly was funding every dentist in Virginia. She incessantly brought cookies, muffins, scones, and every other sugary-filled substance she could learn to whip up. It didn’t escape Luke’s notice that she always seemed to slip Reid extra, whether it was directly on his desk, or him retreating to her lair where he knew her multiple tins of goodies were stashed.

At first, Luke thought it was part of her natural maternal instinct. She was a natural gift giver—food, hugs, cards, and sweaters (or a collar) for Roxy.

It didn’t take long for Luke to understand why Garcia was so insistent on feeding the genius. It appeared that Spencer simply forgot he needed food unless it was thrust upon him. Even when the team had the rare opportunity to go out to dinner, Reid barely ate, usually enthralled with the conversation. At first, it might have come off as forgetfulness; he was too occupied to notice he had barely touched his food.

That was Luke’s fatal flaw—Reid was much too smart to be forgetful. In fact, Reid was deceptively skilled at declining food. 

Luke didn’t want to assume the worst; he prided himself on being an optimist. But being on the BAU had taught him that sometimes assuming everything was fine was a dangerous mistake. 

Luke had seen some of his buddies in high school and college exhibit similar behavior, on both sides of the spectrum. He was on the wrestling team. While Luke had always focused on bulking up due to a late growth spurt, many of his friends had tried cutting to the lower weight divisions a few days before a match. They only ate high protein foods (if that) and spent dangerous amounts of time trying to sweat off water weight.

Luke had been blessed with a mother whose love language was food. Luke never went hungry, always immersed in delicious meals for both celebration and comfort. Some of his fondest memories were cooking with his mother, leaving the kitchen messy but his belly full. His house was small, but it was cozy and loving. It truly was a safe haven from a world that seemed so difficult for a young boy.

He tried to push away the creeping suspicion that Reid undoubtedly had a different experience with his mother, especially when it came to cooking.

Praying he was wrong, Luke began to pay more attention to Reid’s eating habits.

When Spencer did eat, it was never a complete meal. He was very particular about what he ate, and when he did order something out with the team, it was similar to a child’s meal—small portions, simple flavors, no food touching, and always plenty left over. Luke could list Reid’s seemingly “acceptable” meals on one hand; they weren’t dissimilar to the food that Matt fed his children.

They were getting ready to leave a police station in Vermont when Luke heard a clatter in the next room. He whipped his head to see Reid scrambling to pick up pictures and pins that had fallen off the evidence board. Luke strode in to assist when he instantly took in the pale shade of Reid’s face, his hands barely containing a slight tremor as they picked up different photos.

“Need some help?” Luke asked.

“I’ve got it,” Reid said, voice distracted as he stood up a little too quickly. Luke reached out a hand to steady him as he immediately keeled sideways.

“Woah, let’s sit down,” Luke coaxed, using one hand to guide Reid’s lanky form to the closest chair. “You don’t look so great; are you feeling alright?”

“Yeah, I just got a little lightheaded,” Reid muttered, running a hand through his hair unsteadily. His hair looked even darker against his pale forehead. 

“You sure you’re not coming down with something?” Luke asked with a critical eye. “Looking a little green around the gills.”

“Maybe.”

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten something?”

“It wasn’t too long ago,” Reid said offhandedly. Luke frowned.

“The man with the eidetic memory can’t give me exact details of when he last ate?” Luke quipped, but it did nothing to quell the apprehension in his stomach. Spencer wasn’t exactly known for staying attuned to his body’s needs, let alone making others aware when something was amiss.

“I had coffee a few hours ago,” Reid said defensively, slipping photos into their respective files before stuffing them into his messenger bag.

“That doesn’t count,” Luke responded, snagging a water bottle off the counter and handing it to the other man. “You need real food and water. Your blood sugar is probably tanked, and we've been on our feet all day."

“I know,” Reid said sheepishly. “I’ll grab something on the jet.”

“You’re not making more coffee. And the creamer cups don’t count.”

“I know that,” Reid retorted, taking a small sip of water. “I keep cheerios on the jet.”

“You what?”

Standing up slowly, Reid spoke. “Once I had forgotten to eat, and JJ had a ziplock bag of leftover cheerios in her bag for Henry, so she gave them to me. Turns out I really like Cheerios, and they have an extensive expiration date. I have a few bags hidden behind all the extra coffee tins in the jet cabinet.”

“Why are they hidden?” Luke asked. The team often shared food, but cereal didn’t seem like it would be the first choice for someone to steal.

“Morgan would throw them at me,” Reid said, smiling at the fond memory. “But he knew better than to play cards with them, because I would win them all back…not that they were safely edible at that point, but it was a matter of pride with him.”

“Huh,” Luke said, eyes darting to where Prentiss motioning for them to leave. “You know cheerios aren’t enough to sustain you all day though, right?”

“Conceptually? Sure. But realistically? They have 12 essential vitamins and minerals, low sugar, and a surprising amount of iron,” Reid rattled off, following Luke out of the room. Luke wasn’t satisfied with the answer but had to let it go for the moment. They gave a final nod and handshake to the police force before getting into the car, JJ joining them. Luke immediately slid into the driver’s seat; it was an unspoken agreement that he was the driver. Reid briefly offered JJ the front seat as he always did but she instantly declined. Even with the rather spacious car, Reid’s knees hit the back seat.

“So, do you have anything else hidden in that coffee cabinet?” Luke asked, seamlessly resuming their conversation as he snapped in his seatbelt.

“You told him about the cheerios?” JJ asked, slightly deflating. 

“I don’t think he’ll steal them like Morgan,” Reid said, glancing at Luke. “Besides, we have pretzels to gamble with now.”

“Do you still keep cheerios in your purse?” Luke asked.

“Usually some sort of snack. Children are relentless. It started off to keep Henry quiet in church, but you can never go wrong with extra snacks when either he or Michael get grumpy. Or a certain genius.”

“Smart woman,” Luke granted, chuckling. “I’m sure they share a lot of snack foods in common with Reid.”

JJ simply laughed while Reid pouted. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with having a simple palette.”

“Understatement of the year,” JJ muttered, only to receive a glare from Reid.

“Is there any food you like that _isn’t_ available on a child’s menu?” Luke asked.

“There’s a great Indian place by my apartment,” Reid supplied. “I’ve been going there for a few years.”

“You wouldn’t believe it,” JJ interjected, “but Reid handles spicy food better than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s slightly concerning at this point.”

“Really?” Luke asked incredulously, glancing at Reid before returning his focus to the road. “Now that is something I have to see. Do you have dinner plans tonight?”

“I do not,” Reid replied quickly. “JJ?”

JJ snorted. “Will is working tonight so I’m on mom duty. Sorry boys.”

“Damn,” Luke said. “Well Reid, you’re on. This is something I refuse to believe until I actually see it.” He was excited to spend time with Reid—not only to get some fun facts he could use against Garcia in the future, but also so that he could ensure that Reid ate something substantial.

Reid simply smiled. “As per usual, I think I’ll surprise you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“So,” Luke started as they walked into the restaurant, “What do you normally get?” He was not only excited for the food, but the seemingly impossible image of Reid eating something other than plain bread or Garcia’s desserts. 

“Dr. Reid!” The hostess at the front interrupted, a wide smile brightening her face. “So good to see you. Go ahead and sit wherever; I’ll let Aman know you’re here.”

“Thanks Tonya,” Reid smiled, immediately walking over to a table in the corner of the restaurant. Luke followed suit, taking a look around. Reid was walking with the confidence and comfortability of a man who spent a lot of time in the restaurant. 

The restaurant was…quaint, for lack of a better word. It was a tiny establishment along the street—somewhere that seemed to attract regulars while being snubbed by typical tourists. The restaurant was small, but gave off an essence of being comfortable rather than crowded. Low lighting accented the colorful tapestries on the walls and simple wooden tables. It was the last place Luke would expect to ever find Reid. 

Luke sat down, taking in the fragrant smell of various spices and fresh naan. “You seem awfully popular here,” he chuckled, hiding the rumble in his stomach.

“It’s rare that I find places I can tolerate long enough to become a regular,” Reid said, placing the napkin on his lap. “I don’t know what I would do if they ever went out of business.”

“As long as you keep eating here, I doubt that will happen,” Luke said. “So, what do you usually get?”

“They already know,” Reid said. “As you noted earlier, I'm a creature of habit. Do you eat a lot of Indian food?”

“I’m a massive fan of Tandoori chicken, but I’ll eat anything. My mom used to call me the garbage disposal.”

Reid frowned. “That’s not a very flattering nickname.”

“Well, it was fitting. Anytime there were leftovers, they went to me. I’m willing to try anything.”

“Openness to experience is said to be the most telling of the Big Five Personality Traits,” Reid commented before scowling. “I don’t score particularly high in that category.”

“Small steps,” Luke said, smiling as a man approached the table. Reid’s eyes instantly lit up, and Luke assumed this was the Aman mentioned earlier.

“Dr. Reid,” the man said, placing water on the table with a smile. “I was beginning to worry that you were getting sick of us! It’s been a few weeks.”

“Impossible, I could never get sick of you,” Reid said. Luke smiled when he realized that the doctor was being dead serious. “Luke, this is Aman, the owner. Aman, this is Luke Alvez, one of my team members.”

“So good to meet you,” Aman said, offering a hand to Luke and giving him a surprisingly firm handshake.

“And you as well,” Luke eagerly responded. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about your restaurant.”

“Dr. Reid is our best customer,” Aman replied eagerly. “What will you be having?”

“Uh…” Luke hesitated, realizing they hadn’t brought menus to the table.

“Tandoori chicken and my usual spread, please,” Reid interjected. He looked at Luke, smirking. “So, is this a competition?”

Luke chuckled. “Okay, you’re on,” he said, looking back at Aman. “As hot as you can, please.”

“Perfect,” Aman said, clasping Reid on the shoulder as he left. “It’ll be right out.”

“So,” Luke started, looking at Reid with disbelief, “this guy who only eats Cheerios and coffee is trying to convince me that he can handle spicy food?”

“Do you want the easy answer or the complicated one?”

“Both,” Luke responded instantly. Reid froze for a moment, as if that wasn’t the answer he had expected. He smiled comfortably.

“Uh—alright. What do you know about spicy food?”

“That my mother didn’t understand the word because it was a given with everything she made,” Luke responded. “In all seriousness, I do know that it can help with depression.”

“Yes!” Reid said excitedly, fingers twitching. “I’m impressed.”

“I’m not just a pretty face, you know,” Luke countered. “I actually minored in exercise science in college.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’ve been sitting on that tidbit for the next time Garcia makes a sarcastic comment about my biceps.”

“That’s really interesting,” Reid said, barely able to stop himself from continuing. “But you’re right about the depression. In rat studies capsaicin, the chemical found in hot peppers, was found to decrease depression and increase activity. Capsaicin actually binds to the pain receptor on our nerves called TRPV1…”

“Hold up, it’s called what?” Luke asked.

“TRPV1, transient reception potential cation channel subfamily five member one,” Reid rattled off. “Although some keep it short as transient receptor potential vanilloid one.”

“Nevermind,” Luke said, overwhelmed. Reid deflated slightly, and Luke realized his mistake immediately.

“No, no, no,” Luke quickly backtracked, putting his hands up briefly. “Not ‘nevermind’ on you explaining; it’s infuriatingly impressive that you know that. I meant ‘nevermind’ on me interrupting you to try to understand the complex names when they’ll only confuse me more. Continue, my good doctor.”

Reid beamed, mood returning as his hands resumed their flurry. “So capsaicin binds to a pain receptor and your mouth interprets the spice as actual, physical heat, and therefore danger. That’s what causes the flushed face, sweating, and thirst. But what does your brain do when it thinks you’re in pain?” Reid asked, waiting excitedly for Luke to participate.

“It releases endorphins?” Luke guessed slowly, voice high as he waited for Reid to either confirm or reject his semi-educated guess.

“Exactly! Not only endorphins, but also dopamine. Those two together are commonly referred to as the ‘runner’s high.’”

“Wait,” Luke said, “you’re telling me that instead of running, I could have just eaten hot foods?”

“Well it’s not exactly the same,” Reid said, “but a similar concept.”

“Woah,” Luke interrupted, eyes drawn to where Aman was approaching the table with a large tray of food.

“Here we go,” Aman said, placing multiple dishes down on the table. It was a never-ending stream of food that covered the entire table.

“This is incredible,” Luke said excitedly. “Smells amazing.” He looked over at Reid. “This is a lot more than just Tandoori chicken.”

“I know,” Reid said happily, taking the last dish from Aman. “Thank you so much.”

“Always, let me know if you need anything else.”

Luke looked back at Reid as Aman left. “No, seriously, Reid. This is insane. So is that what you do? Just eat one big meal once a week?”

Reid frowned. “What you mean?”

Luke shifted uncomfortably, taking a lid off of a dish. “I don’t mean any offense, but I’ve just noticed that you don’t eat very much. I’ve been worried.”

“Really?” Reid asked, expression confused. He set down a plate, attention on Luke. “Have you been profiling me?”

“Will you be less mad if I call it a personal experiment and incredible observation instead of profiling?” Luke asked, face hopeful.

“Maybe,” Reid said, but instead of malice, his words held curiosity.

“All I’ve really seen you eat is small amounts of bread, cheerios, and Garcia’s cookies,” Luke said. “And I guess coffee, but that doesn’t count as a meal.”

“Actually—”

“No,” Luke interrupted. “I’m sorry, but no, coffee doesn’t count.” Seeing Reid’s slight grumble, Luke continued. “Spencer, last week you immediately threw up the blueberries I offered you on the jet.”

“I didn’t think anyone noticed,” Reid murmured.

“There’s only one action that requires springing up that quickly and running to the bathroom. Plus you were explaining the antioxidant properties, so I figured you liked them. But then you threw up and…I don’t know. We don’t have to talk about it, I’m just worried and don’t want you passing out in the field. I hope I haven’t crossed a line.”

Reid starting setting up the tiny dishes containing different sauces, silent with a pinched expression. Luke suddenly wasn’t hungry anymore; he had clearly overstepped, and Reid’s silence was proof. He felt his face heat up, silently begging for Reid to say something. The other man was biting the inside of his cheek, clearly formulating a response, which was normally something Luke looked forward to. Now, he simply felt sick and apprehensive.

“Reid…”

“I’m autistic.”

Luke looked up. Out of everything Reid could have verbally thrown at him, that was the last thing Luke had been expecting.

“O-Okay. Thank you for telling me,” Luke said quickly. He would take anything at this point. It seemed Reid wasn’t finished.

“It can’t be that much of a surprise. The rest of the team knows, and even if they haven’t explicitly mentioned it, almost everyone has an idea. There are many aspects of my social interactions where that comes into play, and as per usual, I could spend hours going into detail on that. The reason I’m telling you, besides you being someone I consider a friend, is that I have a lot of food aversions. I really do eat, just not with the team or as often.” He glanced briefly at his hands. “I get distracted and forget to eat sometimes. Sometimes the thought of eating is simply unappealing depending on the day. My main problem is the texture of a variety of foods. And you’re right, I was rambling about the antioxidants in blueberries because they are essential, but I can’t stand the texture. Certain textures, no matter how hard I try to enjoy them, take me physically sick. I didn’t mean to offend or worry you.”

Luke sat silently for a few seconds. “Reid, you could have told me no.”

“I know,” Reid said, finally looking up. “But you were offering to share food with me, and I didn’t want to seem like a hypocrite by reciting all the benefits of blueberries and not taking my own advice.”

“Reid, I’m so sorry man.”

Spencer quirked his head to the side. “For…?”

“Just…all the comments about how little you eat. And for assuming. I really appreciate you telling me.”

“It’s okay,” Reid said reassuringly. “I’m not very good at lying, so be assured that I truly mean that it is totally okay. I appreciate you…worrying.” Reid gave a small smile as his eyes lit up. “So I’ll be sure to tell Garcia that her position as mother hen is being taken by Newbie.”

“Hey, hey, I thought we were friends!” Luke exclaimed, unable to keep a smile off of his face. “That’s a low blow. And bad at lying my ass. I’ve seen you milk Matt dry every time he brings his cards onto the jet.”

“You don’t have to resort to lying if you’re actually good at cards,” Reid said, rubbing his hands together. “Aman is going to be over any minute, and I can’t have him thinking I haven’t enjoyed his food yet.”

“Okay,” Luke said, looking down at the massive spread in front of him. He had eaten his fair share of Indian food. But there was something slightly off about the presentation before him.

The food was the same—aromatic, colorful, and simply mouth-watering. But rather than everything on one platter as Luke was accustomed to, everything had been separated into individual dishes. Each sauce was housed in a separate bowl and the chicken was on a separate platter rather than smothered all over rice (which also had its own respective bowl. It was the neatest presentation he had ever seen. Apparently Reid had seen Luke eyeing the complicated setup.

“Within two months Aman quickly caught on that I separated the food once he brought it over and has been thoughtful enough to separate all the different flavors and textures for me. He’s been doing it for years,” Reid said, scooping equal amounts of rice, chicken, and curry onto an empty plate, each element separate.

“That’s kind of him,” Luke commented, following Reid’s lead of scooping chicken and rice onto his plate, but mixing his.

“Unbelievably,” Reid responded, tearing his naan into small pieces.

“Alright, do we work our way up, or start with the hottest thing?” Luke asked, competition slipping into his voice.

“Hot first,” Reid responded, pointing to a dish that smelled slightly dangerous. “Phall curry. It actually originated In Indian restaurants in the UK, but is notorious for being fiery. Aman is serious when it comes to spice.” He scooped some onto his plate before holding it on his spoon. Luke did the same, holding his spoon up in a mock cheer.

“To TMV1,” Luke hailed.

“Close enough,” Reid smiled, taking his first bite. He closed his eyes, and one of his hands began flapping.

“Too hot? This was your idea.” Luke chuckled, before quickly realizing be misread the action.

Reid swallowed and opened his eyes, smiling. “Nope. Delicious.” He raised an eyebrow, cueing Luke to make his move.

“Okay, okay,” Luke said, eagerly taking a bite. He had been starving all day, and figured it would be mild compared to what he had grown up with. “Oh come on, this is…” he started, halfway through his first spoonful.

He froze, looking up only to see Reid’s amused expression. He tried to casually swallow and grabbed the water, only to let out a few poorly-restrained coughs as his eyes teared up.

“Excuse me, I think we’ll need more water,” Reid signaled to a passing waitress.

Luke coughed again, wiping a budding tear from the corner of his eye. “If y-you tell Garcia, I… will k-kill you. This isn't s-spice. This is pain.”

Reid simply snickered, putting away more food as Luke struggled to contain his coughs. Despite the pain in his mouth that was rapidly traveling down his throat, Luke was elated.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

From that night onwards, Luke kept a mental list of Reid’s acceptable foods, trying to bring in as many as possible when the genius was sidetracked.

Blueberries were a no because of the texture, but the majority of other fruits were okay. They had to be ripe—crispy rather than mushy.

Most carbohydrates were alright—pasta was an absolute staple, which was something that Rossi had known for a while. Most sauces were fine (which is good, because the calorie-dense nature of alfredo would definitely help Reid), as long as they were free of large tomato chunks.

Premade sandwiches were an absolute no, as the mayonnaise soaked into the bread and all the other elements started to blend. Luke’s go-to meal had always been sandwiches, but then again, he really was a garbage disposal.

Leftovers were a no. And any sort of carbonated beverage was definitely a no.

_“It burns,” Reid had said, when Luke questioned the nasty expression he had received while enjoying sparkling mineral water._

_“So you can handle spice from the depths of hell, but carbonation burns?”_

_“Yep,” Reid grinned. “It’s not my fault you can’t handle it. And spicy food doesn’t burn, it just tingles. Carbonation is like sandpaper. While it can help with digestion, those bubbles actually activate TRPA1, which another ion channel that interprets signals as pain and itching. I thought you minored in exercise science; didn’t you learn anything about nutritional science?”_

_“I did!” Luke defended. “But you gotta remember, it was a class mostly filled with jocks. More about micro and macro nutrients, not ion channels.”_

_“Shame.”_

While it was true that Luke didn’t know as much as Reid on the microscopic level, contrary to Garcia’s taunting, he wasn’t a dumb jock.

He tried hiding his smile when Reid grabbed a ziplock from the coffee station on the jet after a case. Spencer only gave Luke a quick glance before eating his cheerios, which Luke had mixed with multigrain ones. Baby steps.

And leaving his house early to hit Monday’s farmer’s market to get perfect fruit for the break room was really no trouble at all.

He was slowly getting the hang of it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Just as Luke was getting close to Reid, it seemed to all crumble in an instant.

The past month had been a non-stop revolving door of horror upon horror upon horror.

JJ masked her fear under determination, but still twirled her hair under her adept fingers. Emily was irritated, and Luke said nothing as she tweaked guidelines and skirted under department heads with nails bitten to the core. Rossi had become the stoic leader, picking up slack when the others couldn’t. Tara had been surprisingly enduring, using her anxious energy to reach out to every contact she could. Matt was also a stable presence, reliable to do whatever needed to be done in the wake of a team that was slowly crumbling.

_“How is he?”_

_“He can’t stay in there.”_

Luke shuddered. Even if Reid could endure by mentally, Luke had barely recognized the man in the holding cell that resembled more of a skeleton than a government agent. It was a waiting game that Luke wasn’t sure he could wait out, let alone Reid, and really….Garcia.

Garcia wasn’t going to be able to wait out Reid’s sentence. Despite the teasing relationship they had fallen into, Luke couldn’t stand seeing the absolute sunshine of their office stressed and miserable. So he did what he could—helped Garcia find new recipes for the second Spencer got out, provided her with an endless supply of glitter markers for her meeting schedule, and didn’t say a word when he walked in on her crying.

It felt like it would never end.

Then they got Reid out, saved Diana, took down Lindsey and Cat, and were left with the whiplash of Reid being back. It was jarring to go from months of sprinting to an immediate halt.

Luke and Emily had been Spencer’s primary sources of contact in Mexico. It was too hectic to truly pay attention to the smaller things, but then again, Luke had always been observant, especially of his friend.

He gave Reid space initially, keeping his concern to small comments and split-second glances when he was able to see him, which hadn’t been much to begin with. Luke had to restrain himself the first week to let Reid get situated and let Garcia fuss over him. But once the first week had subsided, Luke decided it was his turn. The team had finished a case early (a rare luxury) and it was the perfect opportunity to see Spencer. He had been pretty holed up in his apartment with the team taking rotations to visit. Between getting his mother settled and therapy appointments, Reid’s schedule had been pretty filled.

Luke took a deep breath and rapped on Reid’s door, which swung open almost immediately. Luke had texted him when they landed, so he knew Reid was expecting him, but the rapid response was still alarming.

“Hey man!” Luke said, settling for a shoulder clasp when he decided to steer clear of hugs and handshakes. Spencer had been wary of physical touch before his time in prison, and Luke imagined that aversion had only gotten worse.

Frankly, it was not the only aspect that had gotten worse. Not that Luke could really blame him.

The genius had always been thin, but now he was distressingly gaunt. Reid was wearing a simple t-shirt and sweatpants; it was almost impossible to ignore how the shirt engulfed his entire frame. 

“Good to see you as well,” Reid responded, moving to the side so Luke could enter his apartment. He shut the door, locking it only to recheck it again. “Sorry for the mess, I just finished moving my mom out.”

“Hey, no worries man,” Luke said, plopping down on the couch. “Did your mom settle in alright?”

“Yeah,” Spencer affirmed, moving a stack of books off the other end of the couch. “She really seems to like it. It’s a great facility.”

“Glad to hear it.” Out of habit, Luke’s eyes washed over the apartment. His eyes furrowed when he saw a row of various pill bottles on the kitchen counter. A few were prescription, but Luke recognized different generic bottles of multivitamins. “That’s quite the vitamin collection you have there. It would rival some of my army buddies.”

Spencer nodded, long hair bobbing. “The past few months have left me a little deficient.”

“I can’t imagine you got your fill of Vitamin D,” Luke muttered. “People underestimate the power of sunlight.”

“Agreed.”

They sat in silence for a moment, Luke watching Reid while the other man seemed to look anywhere but back at him. Luke took a deep breath, deciding to fill the silence.

“How are you holding up?”

Reid looked up, forehead creased. “I’m uh…fine.” He took in Luke’s telling glance. “Well, you know. But I’m adjusting.”

“I know,” Luke sympathized. “I also know that you are sick of people asking, both the team and….”

“Therapists,” Reid finished, voice hoarse. “And yes, I am. I really appreciate you asking. I might eventually take you up on it. But honestly I am tired of people asking about my emotional state when I don’t...” Reid’s voice fell off a little and he waved his hand vaguely. “I don’t know.”

“That’s totally alright,” Luke reassured, “At the risk of sounding cliché, no one expects you to bounce back immediately.” Seeing Reid’s halfhearted glare, he decided to continue. “You know what I mean. If you want to talk, I’ll listen. But maybe instead of discussing that aspect, we can pretend I’m asking about your physical state?”

The glare, although friendly, did not abate.

“Come on, Reid. I can’t be the first to tell you that your enthusiastic avoidance of medical attention isn’t healthy.”

Reid scanned his coffee table for a few sheets of paper, slipping them quickly from the stack that was accumulating. He handed them over to Luke. Luke skimmed the papers, confused for a moment. It took him a minute to realize they were blood test results—categories with corresponding numbers, many circled with a highlighter. While Luke didn’t understand everything on the page, it didn’t take a doctor to understand the basic gist. He looked at the vitamin bottles and back at Reid.

“So it wasn’t just Vitamin D,” Luke concluded. “Reid, you’re deficient in almost everything.”

“It’s not even a major standard deviation from my normal,” Reid pointed out, pitch raising slightly in defense.

“I knew you were lacking in a few, but this is serious,” Luke said, flipping to the second page. “It may just be my impressive minor that you’ve proved isn’t really that impressive, but you could be hospitalized for this.”

“If I had more energy I would make a quip about the food being the worse part of prison,” Reid responded nonchalantly, running a hand over his face, skin stretched too tight. 

Luke looked up, realization dawning on him as his face fell. “You didn’t eat, did you?”

Reid squirmed. “A little. I just couldn’t force myself to. Sometimes they had jello, but everything else had an unbearable texture. I really tried, but it just made me sick.”

“I’m so sorry,” Luke said softly. “I’m aware prison food is pretty much just endless leftovers.”

“Yeah,” Reid said, biting his cheek. “Do you want coffee?”

“S-sure,” Luke stuttered, realizing Reid was trying to switch the topic of conversation. “Actually, how about I make it?” He got up and walked over to the kitchenette. He had been to Reid’s apartment a few times and was very familiar with where his coffee supplies were. He took note of the seven cookie tins on the counter.

“Garcia?”

“Who else,” Reid asked, seeming to relax into the couch and wincing slightly. “I missed her—well, I missed you all—but I don’t want to imagine the state of her kitchen right now. She’s trying to fit in months of hugs and muffins into a three day period.”

“She never does anything halfheartedly, does she?” Luke asked, pouring grounds into the filter.

“No, and I love her all the more for it,” Reid mumbled, slipping his eyes shut. Spencer didn’t use that word often, so Luke made a mental note to relay the message to Garcia when he got back to the office.

“I’m surprised you haven’t eaten them all yet,” Luke said, stifling a yawn as the aroma of delicious coffee filled the air.

“I don’t have the heart to tell her I have a mild allergy to macadamia nuts,” Reid replied. “I will eventually, but she just started using them.”

Luke opened the fridge to grab creamer, mouth agape at the measly sight before him. There were two milk cartons, a few random fruits, a loaf of bread, and a package of cheese.

“Do you wanna go grocery shopping with me this weekend?” Luke asked, trying not to be horrified at the lack of food in the apartment.

“Can I ask you a question as a counterpoint?” Reid asked, eyes still shut as he rested his head on his hand.

“Always,” Luke said, pouring coffee into two worn mugs and pouring milk into Reid’s.

“You know those smoothies you bring into work?”

“Fruit or protein?” Luke asked, setting Reid’s mug down and sitting on the couch.

“Both I guess,” Reid replied quizzically, sitting up and taking the mug gratefully. “I was wondering if you could teach me how to make them?”

“Of course,” Luke replied eagerly. “Are you finally seeing the exercise minor has a proper use?”

Spencer cradled his mug. “Debatable. Prison really…” Reid cleared his throat, hesitating. “I’ve become a lot more sensitive to texture. And I’ve come to associate solid food with feeling nauseous. But _someone_ has made it clear to me that I’m vitamin deficient. Actually, a good deal of people, including a few medical professionals. And I did some reading, and I figured smoothies might help with both the vitamins and nausea. It’s something I know I’ll be able to tolerate.”

“Doc, it would be my honor. I’ve got an entire recipe book with your name on it.”

“That’s preemptive.”

“Not literally, Reid,” Luke laughed. “Now, do you have a blender?”

“I thought your breathtaking exercise major came with one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts??? I'm not saying Luke is a *whispers* himbo,,, but that's exactly what I'm saying. I love hearing from you guys and your sweet comments make my week. Probably only a couple of chapters left, so if you have anything you're interested in seeing, hmu? Appreciate you all! <3


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